


Nothing But

by Smokemycancer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 57
Words: 111,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IanMick. If two trains travel in the same direction on parallel tracks, what are the chances of the trains colliding? Slim to none, seeing as one conductor is avoiding the other like a plague. But storms complicate control, and before you know it. . .Set after S2, five years into the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious, I wrote this entire fic with the song "Little Black Submarines" by The Black Keys on repeat. If you haven't ever hear it, you should Youtube that shit. It's pretty much amazing. Kind of inspired this story, really.
> 
> This is an older fic that I had uploaded to FFN after season 2 finished airing. My take on what would happen 5 years into a furture where season 3 did not exist. Excuse the inaccuracies on the other Milkovich siblings (mainly Iggy) during certain chapters. This was written before we knew a little about him. Enjoy and R&R!

Part One: Run Home

  


South-side. He guessed it had been close to five years since he had seen his old neighborhood. He hadn't even seen Chicago in nearly three, since moving out of Illinois. Hadn't spoken to anyone aside from his sister since a year after moving. And he'd have been happy to fucking keep it that way, his forgetting this shithole, if not for the phone call he'd gotten two weeks prior to this lovely first of February. So here he was, standing below his old stoop, hands in his jacket pockets, thumbing the letters marring his dirty knuckles.

Mickey licked at his chapped bottom lip, gnawed on the dead skin for a minute as he eyedballed the front door. His eyes flicked around the yard. The over turned sofa, home to a family of rats, probably, was still surrounded by ancient beer cans. The snow covered most of them, but he made out at least a hundred. The thudding and whir of the El zipped by overhead, and Mickey, now slowly walking up the broken wooden steps, made out the distinct sound of shouting as the loudness began to fade. The shouting grew closer to his back as he reached for the doorknob. He gave the knob a turn, only to find it locked. He banged four times with the side of his fist, then took a step back, waiting. Briefly he glanced in the window and watched the reflection of three girls go by his back. The tallest of the three slapped the black one as they speed walked. For a moment he expected a fight, but the trio kept walking, with the tall redhead glaring hard at her victim, daring. The shouts drifted as the front door creeped open.

And there she was.

"You letting me in or what?" Mickey sighed, raising his brows and shrugging.

Mandy opened the door and stepped aside as Mickey entered. She shut the door as her brother shifted about anxiously, rubbing his nose with his thumb, sniffing, and squirming against his thick coat. The silence was lengthy after the lock clicked into placed. Only the sounds of Mickey drifted through the messy home. Mandy watched his eyes dart about the living room.

"Damn, this place fucking smells," he said.

Rolling her eyes at Mickey's back, Mandy stood beside him and patted his shoulders hard. She laughed without mirth.

Fifteen minutes later, the youngest two of the Milkovich siblings were seated at a cluttered dinning-room table, each with a cup of java in hand. Mandy cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair, one arm over the back and the other holding her mug firmly atop the table. Mickey hunched over his own mug, face drawn as he stared into the blackened water.

"I'll be honest," Mandy was the first to speak since their settling in, "I didn't really think you'd show."

Mickey looked up at her from under his lashes. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravely, "He was a piece of shit, Mandy. I only came so I could piss in his casket."

She nodded, suddenly interested in the kitchen tile.

More silence. This time it was Mickey who broke it.

He stood abruptly from the table, his chair screeching loudly, startling his sister, and dumped his mug into the sink. He spun around, leaning against the counter, and crossed his arms over his semi-clean red t-shirt. "I'm glad he's fucking dead," he commented casually. "How'd he bite it?"

Mandy skewered her face and sat upright, slamming her fists on the table. "Christ, he's our fucking father, Mick!" she growled.

"Shit," he smiled, "goddamned father of the year!" And he waved both of his arms out, then dropped them. They clapped against his oil streaked jeans.

She glared at him and shook her head.

Just watching her face shift through emotions, Mickey could see Mandy trying to find a decent defense for their deceased father. "Good luck with that," he quipped as an afterthought. "He ain't worth defending."

Her heavily colored eyes searched his, and finally Mandy grabbed her mug and stood beside her brother at the sink, rinsing both dishes. Mickey turned his neck and watched her. Somewhere between his mug and hers, Mandy had apparently decided to wash all of the piled up shit in the sink. He saw the steam coming up around the bubbles, saw her pale skin turning pink, and heard her wipe at her red-rimming eyes with a soap-sudded sleeve way before his tough sister began sobbing. Mickey's eyes widened momentarily and he quickly reached around to turn down the hot water. He sneered down at the food and soap, then yanked the plate from his sister's hand and began washing it himself. She sniffed hard and then grabbed up some silverware.

And so they stood there and washed fucking dishes.


	2. Preparations

Two things he loathed above all in this world, one of which was having to be patient. He fucking hated waiting, yet here he was, sitting in Mandy's white, dinged up 1995 Camry. Watching out of the passenger's window as he scarfed down his Biscutville breakfast, Mickey contemplated walking into the funeral home. Maybe hurry his sister along. But he didn't because he knew he would only end up waiting in there, too. Only he'd be less comfortable, and be forced to deal with stares. So he finished the plate, then tossed the styrofoam casing, greasy now because of his hands, into the floorboard of the backseat. He wiped his hands, sort of, on his knees, then propped his feet up on the dash, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Mickey was startled awake by Mandy slamming her door as she literally jumped into the driver's seat. Dazed, he sat up and blinked at her, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Mandy continued getting situated. She reached into the backseat with her purse, to get it out of her way, then sneered. "God-fucking damn it," she hissed and grabbed up his forgotten trash. She waved the styrofoam in his face. Mickey scowled and grabbed it from her harshly. Mandy rolled her eyes when she looked down at her now slightly greasy hands. Quickly, before Mickey had time to stop her, she violently wiped her hands on his sleeve.

"Bitch, the fuck's your damage?" Mickey snapped, jerking away, trash in hand.

"Could you be less of a pig?" she growled and buckled up. "Go throw it away in the fucking trash can," she continued, now pointing to the one directly in front of their vehicle. She continued griping about keeping a clean car, but Mickey was already begrudgingly getting out of the car and defiantly leaving the trash on the curbside. When he hoped back in and grinned at her hatefully, Mandy slapped his shoulder.

Mickey laughed and shoved her off him. As she put the car in drive, he commented that she should hit the gym if she was going to try and hurt him.

When they returned home, Mandy went immediately to the answering machine. Mickey plopped down on the sofa and stretched out his arms across the back. He watched her over his shoulder. The first two messages were debt collectors for his brother Tony.

"He still on the lamb?" Mickey asked, to which Mandy only nodded, skipping to the next message.

After it played, she repeated it. This time, Mickey, furrowing his brow, stomped over for a better listen.

Mandy put a hand over her mouth and gasped angrily. She looked over to Mickey, who ran a finger across his bottom and lip shook his head.

"They can't do fuck all," Mickey said confidently. "He paid the house off. Right?"

Mandy paused, confused, and turned off the machine. "I thought," she said. "Who the hell knows. He probably used it as collateral for something." Exasperated, Mandy went into the kitchen while Mickey listened once more to the message.

When she came out, she had two beers in hand, her eyes were red and furious, and she was shaking. Mickey finally walked away from the answering machine and stood behind the sofa, taking the beer offered back to him. He noticed Mandy's shaking. Having never been one to comfort anyone properly, he told her he would handle this and to stop being such a little bitch about it. "You worry about the funeral," he said, taking a big swig from his bottle, "I'll go up to dad's bank tomorrow. Fix this bullshit."

Mandy finished her beer and slammed the bottle on the floor. It broke, but did not shatter.

"Jesus!" Mickey spat beer, startled.

"That's easy for you to say," Mandy yelled, standing to face him. She bumped her calf on the coffee table and ignored the pain, "You get to leave after this weekend and go back to your fucking piece of shit studio apartment with your god damned dog and drugged up girlfriend! Where the hell am I going to stay," her voice broke, "if they do take the fucking house?" Mandy shook herself violently and collapsed into a pile of tears.

Mickey stared down at her, mouth agape and eyes wide, beer dangling by his hip. "Shit," he breathed.

"Just get out, Mickey!" Mandy screamed into the sofa cushion. "Get the fuck away from me!"

Mickey huffed and downed his beer in one last swig. "Fuck you," he said and threw the empty bottle into her television. As he stormed out, he saw Mandy chasing after him wildly.

He later found himself walking into the Alibi Room. This was after trudging the streets, trying to clear his mind and not kill the first person to even glance his way. This plan of civility almost faltered because of the memories dragged up by the familiarity of his surroundings. Mickey decided that getting drunk was truly the only solution. So he joined the rest of the losers at the bar because why not? As soon as he walked in, he was overcome by the smell of stale booze and the loudness of various television screens amplified by the voices of barflies. He took the open seat next to a passed out man who was cradling his shot glass. Mickey bellowed at the bartender, whose back was turned as he restocked the cooler. Slowly the bartender stood and tossed his rag across his shoulder. Mickey smirked, immediately recognizing Kevin Ball. His hair was shorter and he had packed on a few pounds. Apparently Kev recognized Mickey. He looked surprised, and leaned forward on the counter.

Kev smirked back at Mickey and raised his brows. "Thought you were probably in prison," he said.

"Yeah, well," Mickey snorted and pulled out his wallet, "not yet." He looked at Kev, and his face relaxed into his usual frown. "Three shots of Vodka," he said.

Kev took his money and gave him the shots. For the most part, Mickey was left alone after that, since it quickly became apparent that being ignored at the moment was his wish.

An hour and three more shots later, Kev pulled the plug on a disgruntled Mickey. As Mickey stood up and began baiting a flustered Kevin, the sleeping man stirred. As the two men argued, the stranger burped loudly and leaned over the bar, grabbing at the half emptied bottle of Vodka.

"Hey!" Kev snapped, turning away from Mickey, letting go of the younger man's shirt and psychotically smiling face, "Frank, I cut you off hours ago," he sighed, "You can't just help yourself."

Grinning goofily, Frank Gallagher, twisted around in his seat. He stood, stumbled, then steadied himself on his stool again. "Kev," Frank began, speech horribly slurred. "We American citizens are taught from birth that the world," he put his hand to his mouth, his eyes bugged, and then he continued, "is our oyster. We can be anything!" He sloshed the bottle, wavering forward. "Have anything! And my money is just as good now as when I came in," he finished, staring at Kev expectantly.

Still standing beside of Mickey, Kev stared back at Frank, dumbly. Mickey snorted.

"Frank, you aren't even making sense," Kev said and confronted him, grabbing the bottle. "Go home."

"Does he ever make sense?" a random woman laughed. With her laughter, the bar erupted into a short fit of hysterics. Aside from Mickey, who sneered as he watched Frank tell them all to go to hell, stumbling to the door. The lush made sure to inform Kev that he would not return; that he'd open his own bar, where men didn't have to worry about cutoffs or last call.

Frank Gallagher. Seeing him brought back a familiar jump in Mickey's chest. A sick feeling. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his mouth a few times.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Kev screamed, putting the bottle on the bar and lurching forward. He grabbed a green Mickey and hurried him to the door. "Puke outside," he said. But it was too late, because Mickey already lost his stomach. Kev groaned, face to the ceiling, and yelled for the woman who had been waiting tables to give him a hand.

When he left the bar after paying off his tab, Mickey considered following Frank Gallagher, who hadn't yet made it out of his line of vision. But he didn't because that was stupid. At three in the morning, Mickey stumbled into his old living room and passed out on the sofa. The next morning, although hung over, he joined his sister for a poorly cooked breakfast, the previous argument forgotten until Mandy wanted to watch television. Two pawn shops later, and Mickey was replacing the set that he had busted.

Sitting in front of the much smaller television, the Milkovich siblings discussed Mandy's living arrangements.

"I'm not living with that druggy whore. Besides, everything I know," Mandy began, fiddling with the pillow in her lap, "is here, in Chicogo. I wouldn't know what to do with myself in Indianapolis."

"Well sleep on the fucking streets then," Mickey snapped, throwing his hands up in surrender. "See if I give two shits."

She glared at him, then smacked him with her pillow. Slowly they smiled at one another, laughing softly. "Fine," Mandy said, hugging the pillow and bringing her knees against her.


	3. Driveby Funeral

Mickey wasn't even surprised by the lack of people who showed up to his father's funeral. Honestly, he had been expecting less. Much like himself, his father hadn't really had any friends, just acquaintances with which he dealt business. Staring down at the casket being lowered into the ground, Mickey found himself hating the similarities he could find between him and his father. In front of him, Mandy blew her nose into a filthy tissue, then hugged herself tightly. His aunt was there, frowning down at the dirt and holding his youngest cousin's dress sleeve. And his dad's most frequent associate was also there to pay his respects. Mickey's brothers, of course, couldn't make it for various reasons. Five people, not including the priest, watched the coffin lower as the priest waved his fingers in a cross over the hole. Mickey thought that was pretty fucking retarded, the way religious people sought to save even the dead. Even if Mickey had believed in some form of an afterlife, he wouldn't have seen the point in praying over his dear old dad. The man was probably burning in a theological fire right now. Mickey kind of hoped there was a hell, so that his father was made to suffer. Probably there wasn't, though, and Terry Milkovich had gotten off scott-free this final time.

As the service ended, the five spectators walked away from the seen in different directions. Mickey and Mandy walked side-by-side up the hill, and Mickey wanted to gripe but didn't as his sister plopped down between two trees.

"It's really unfair, don't you think?" Mandy said, looking up at her brother, whose eyes were trained on the road.

"Hm?" Mickey grunted, feigning interest.

"Why is everyone else so fucking fortunate?"

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Fuck off," he groaned, lighting a cigarette. "No one on this rock is fortunate. We're all fucked in one way or another."

She stared up at him, seeming to think over his statement, then nodded glumly. "You're just like him," she said, annoyed.

"You fucking say that again," Mickey snapped, whirling around at her, "and I'll leave you here to eat out of dumpsters. Understand?"

"Whatever," Mandy said dully, putting her chin in her hands.

"I got outta this shit town, so I don't want to hear how I'm like him. Fuck you."

Mickey coughed in their silence, then reached his cigarette down to Mandy, who took a few drags before handing it back. The wind picked up and the sun peeked out from the clouds. Mickey watched his sister, her hair looking almost red in the sunlight, play with the small amount of melted snow still on the ground. Finally, he reached his hand down to her and jerked his head to the side. "Let's go home," he said and shook his hand for her to hurry. But his lack of patience was only halfhearted. Even he could see that for some fucking reason his sister was mourning. Probably not over losing their father, but more for the fact that her life was a pile of shit, just like Mickey's. Because neither of them amounted to much. Neither of them proved their father wrong. The only thing Mickey had on Mandy was that he had gotten out. Although, his freedom from South Side was wrought from chaos, and he hadn't really moved up much in the world while in Indianapolis. He pondered this sourly as he and Mandy finished walking up the hillside and began trekking the street.

As he drifted into his own thoughts, Mickey was unaware of the black van coming up too slowly behind them.

" _Why the fuck is my stereo in the trash?" Mickey bellowed as he walked backwards in the door, said stereo in toe._

_It was a little after five in the evening, and he had just walked home from the Silvestros' house, one week out of juvie._

_His answer was his sister's high pitched cry, a half-naked blonde girl brushing past him while trying to dress herself out the door, and his father's drunken yelling._

_Immediately, Mickey dropped his things, a bag of weed falling from his pants pocket, and demanded to know what the hell was happening as he barged into Mandy's room._

Thinking back on that day made Mickey want to punch his sister. Even though none of it was really her fault. Not really. She had also been a victim of their father's brash behavior that night. Mickey's last night in South Side. Today it was hard to decipher what made him say it. Maybe it had been because he didn't want to see his father kill Mandy. Maybe it was because the burden had weighed on him heavily his second time in juvie. Or maybe it was because he simply wanted to piss his father off so that he'd beat the shit out of Mickey, since Mickey hated himself for what he really was. Whatever the reason, Mickey had deterred his father away from Mandy by screaming at him that if Terry wanted to hit a fucking homo, he should try one who was more apt at defending himself. Maybe some faggot like his son, who could take a god damned punch like it was nobody's business. And take a punch Mickey had. At one point, the two men were in the kitchen and Mickey's head was through the front of the stove. It had been Mandy who had leapt at her father and knocked him unconscious. So no, he didn't need to punch Mandy. None of it was Mandy's fault. Except maybe that she saved him. Maybe, he thought with a bitter laugh, she shouldn't have.

"What's funny?" Mandy asked, pulling Mickey from his thoughts.

And he turned, opened his mouth to say something, but instead ended up screaming for Mandy to get down. But it was too late by the time he saw the man lean out of the van's window and take his shot. Too late when Mickey dived to knock Mandy out of the way.


	4. Stuck

The fucks had missed him, hadn't really paid attention as the van sped off. Hadn't seen Mickey crawl over to Mandy and scream for help. Good thing for Mandy that the priest who had helped burry Terry Milkovich was still around to witness the shooting and call an ambulance.

The hall in which he sat was not the waiting room. The waiting room was too far from where the ER nurses had wheeled his sister. Mickey had tried forcing them to at least let him stay outside of the surgery room. Of course that was against protocol; however, because he was impossible to deal with, the staff had instead allowed Mickey to stay put beyond the doorway to the surgery wing. Close enough, he guessed. Sitting on his haunches against a pale blue wall, Mickey Milkovich decided that if Mandy died, he was going to off himself. Because his sister and he weren't really that close, but she was the only person he had right now, however distant. The woman he was fucking in Indianapolis didn't count because he was only sleeping with her to stay in her pad for free. He could really care less if she was breathing. In fact, her being dead would have made Mickey's life less complicated. Certainly the many men he had let into his bed didn't count. He couldn't remember half of their names. Didn't want to. His mother might still be breathing; he didn't know. Didn't care. She had been no better for the children than their fuck up of a father. Mandy actually seemed to care about Mickey. No one else gave two shits. Anyone who might have, well, Mickey had screwed that up, just like anything else in his life. Pushed them away because Mickey didn't feel comfortable with people caring about him. Mandy actually seemed to care, and even if that made Mickey nervous, it mattered to him. So if Mandy died, fuck everything.

The operation was still happening, and no one had kept him up to speed. Mickey balled up his fists over and over. Banged his head lightly against the wall, and tried not to scream. Eventually, he sat all the way down, knees bent, and held his head on both sides. He felt like being sick, but couldn't make himself puke.

Two hours later, he was both relieved and still sick.

The doctor in front of him, a Hispanic female, chubby and shorter than even Mickey, held his gaze firmly with a sympathetic frown on her face. Mickey expected the worst news. She wetted her small lips and folded her wrists across her hips. "Your sister made it out of the surgery, Mr. Milkovich," she said, but for some reason didn't say this with a smile. "But she isn't awake yet," she finished.

"Wake her up then," he said, confused.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," she said. "Mandy is in a comatose state."

Mickey was dizzy. He put his hands on his hips, breathing slowly through his mouth. After a minute, when he trusted his voice, he looked back at the doctor. "But she's alive," he stated.

"Correct. However, her brain activity is low—"

"The fuck's that even mean?" he quipped, cutting her off. Mickey closed his eyes tightly and scowled.

The doctor reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but Mickey flinched away, put his tongue in his cheek and snarled. Nodding, the young doctor took a step back, then cleared her throat. "We're doing everything we can, Mr. Milkovich. Your sister is in good hands."

"So," Mickey felt his throat tighten. Gripped his hips as if to ground himself. "So when will she come out of it?" His voice was impatient, just like his stance. The tension rolling off of him was almost suffocating.

The doctor looked him in the eyes and apologized before saying, "When a person is comatose, it is basically impossible for us to decipher when and if he or she will wake. For that matter, how the person's state of mind will be upon waking. I'm sorry, sir, but we're all just going to have to wait this one out."

And Mickey fucking hated waiting.

A week went by and Mickey was still waiting around in South Side.

Today he was being thrown out of his own house by a bank to which his father had taken out a loan. Because of that loan, the glasses rimmed and skinny suited prick in front of Mickey said, his father had basically sold his house back to the bank. He faulted on payments two months prior to his death, and the house was now a foreclosure. The tightwad put his chin in the air and smiled a toothy grin at Mickey who was still standing in the doorway, blocking the two officers who were going to supposedly force him out. The broker waved his effeminate hands outward in a mock friendly gesture. Opening his mouth was the broker's first mistake, and assuming that Mickey wasn't going to become violent just because the twat had the law on his side was the second one. "If you would like to purchase the house back," he said, "we can do business down at my office."

Mickey scratched his head and laughed with his tongue against the corner of his mouth, between his sharp teeth. "All right," he said, watching his bare toes wiggle against the wooden stoop. "Can I at least get my shit?"

"Naturally, you are aware that you have had a week to pack, sir," the broker said, pushing his glasses up.

"Right. Fuck," Mickey was still chuckling, "how stupid of me." He inhaled deeply, pulling at the waistband of his dirty boxers with one hand, and scratching his stomach through his once white and now grey wife beater. "Whatever," he laughed.

The pigs in front of him looked at each other from the corner of their eyes. One of them, Mickey was familiar with, as he had been arrested by the guy once before, when Mickey had been shot over a candy bar. Not only that instance, but plenty other almost arrests. That had been a while back, but Tony Markovich remembered Mickey well, it seemed, as he nodded at the other officer and told Mickey not to try anything he would regret.

Mickey smiled full on and sauntered down his front steps, between the cops, and did a turn on the sidewalk. "Shit, man, regret isn't in my god damned vocabulary," he said.

It was cold as tits, but Mickey was far too pumped on his building adrenaline to care. The broker took a step away from him. The weasel of a man looked to the cops. Mickey stared at his features from the corner of his eye. The other man seemed to be sizing Mickey up and at the same time asking the officers with his pin needle eyes if he was in danger.

"Right you  _fucking_  are," Mickey whispered under his breath, but loud enough that the pussy heard him. And as the two cops yelped and ran for the duo, Mickey swung. Hard. He heard the other man's nose crack under the weight of his blow, and laughed when he pulled his fist away, covered in blood. He flicked his wrist and grinned just before the cops threw him to the ground, cuffing him quickly. He gasped when his wind came back to him. But was still laughing.

The broker writhed on the ground, screaming and holding his broken nose.

His night in the station lock up had been one of his worst nights. He couldn't sleep and kept dreaming about Mandy being a fucking retard when she came out of her coma.

They had brought him a pair of pants. So at least he wouldn't have to sleep on the El partially naked when he was released the next day.

"Fortunate for you," Tony Markovich was saying as he undid Mickey's cuffs the next morning, "the lieutenant's son lost his townhome because of that same bank. Plus the broker is afraid to press charges. So you're free to go home." He immediately flinched and apologized.

Mickey chewed his thumb, scowling and looking Tony over.

Tony shook his head as he opened the station's front door. "I heard about your father. . . and Mandy," he said. "I'm real sorry, Mickey."

"Fuck you," Mickey hissed and practically ran from the station.

Not having a home to go back to, and knowing that he wasn't about to sleep in a hospital even if the nurses would allow him, Mickey went straight to the Alibi and got smashed. He repeated these steps for about five days. Eventually, Kev started to ask questions because he was a fucking closeted do-gooder like that. Wisely, he had fed Mickey whiskey until the younger man was too drunk to hold his tongue, and had waited for the bar to empty out, Frank Gallagher included.

"Lip told me about your sister," Kev stated as he unloaded the dishwasher and nodded goodbye to his coworker. He looked up at a slumped over Mickey as he dried the glassware. Kevin, unlike Mickey, was a patient man.

Mickey sloshed his melted ice and drink around loudly. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to talk openly, Kev put down his rag, stocked the glasses, and the leaned forward on the counter, snapping his fingers in front of Mickey's face.

"That's damn ballsy of you," Mickey said, not looking up, and didn't sound threatening though he tried.

"So what are you gonna do?" Kev then asked, tilting his head. "You sticking around?"

"The fuck's it look like?" Mickey finished his last drop of Jack and Coke. "For now."

"Where have you been staying? You fucking reek when you come in here."

Mickey smirked tartly. "The bank foreclosed on my dad's house. Been sleeping on the El."

Kev furrowed his brow and poured both of them water from the tap. He handed Mickey a glass and the younger pushed it away as if it were poison. Kev shrugged and sipped his. His sighed contentedly, smacking his lips loudly and put the glass in the sink. "I thought Terry owned that house," he finally said.

"Yeah?" Mickey asked loudly and laughed. "So did I. Imagine my surprise!"

The bartender skipped this subject, and stepped on even more traitorous ground. But for fear that Mickey would lunge at him, Kevin crossed his arms and stepped back, scratching his goatee before suggesting, "Why don't you stay in your sister's room at the hospital?"

And Mickey froze, mouth agape and tongue lapping at his chapped lips. His eyes flashed to Kev and seemed to glint wildly. "Not that it's your god damned business," he growled, "but I can't fucking look at her."

Kev blinked down. "It's gotta be hard, man," he said. "Guess I'd feel kind of similar if it were me in that position."

Mickey huffed. Finally he began drinking the water, figuring his throat was pretty fucking burnt.

"Well," Kev sighed and stepped back even further, "if you need a place to stay—"

Before the clock's hand ticked, Mickey tossed down his glass and stood up, cutting Kev off. "I don't need your sympathy, Ball," he snapped.

"Good," Kev said firmly, stepping forward in defiance to Mickey's behavior. "Because you don't have it."

Mickey growled and turned towards the door, informing Kev just where he could shove it.

"I need someone to cover for me for the next couple of weeks," Kev said loudly, annoyed, rolling his eyes. As if he couldn't believe his own words. He leaned on the counter once more. His words halted a confused Mickey with his hand on the door knob. "Vee's sick with the flu and can't really take care of the baby. Fiona isn't really in any condition to help out anymore."

Mickey didn't know why he was being told all of this.

"Since you're here all the damn time," Kev rubbed the back of his neck, "and your tab is getting pretty hefty, maybe you'd like to work it off? Stay upstairs in the mean time?"

Mickey told him to go fuck himself. That Mickey Milkovich wasn't a charity case, and stormed out.


	5. Cat Scratch

The taxi smelled of pizza and strong garlic. Ian could feel the scent sinking into his pores, and unconsciously wrinkled his noise in distaste. He hated garlic. Furthermore, he was usually uncaring of a person's cleanliness, but the particular driver had been rude to him from the start. And also Ian knew that the man's meter was rigged. Could see the wiring atop. Other passengers most likely didn't notice, but because Ian's oldest brother had been somewhat of an inventor of such gadgets, Ian had grown to recognize them himself. This particular one looked similar to the one Lip had installed in Jody's cab, just this past July.

"You know what," Ian sighed out and leaned towards the driver seat, "I think I'd rather walk."

The sixty something year old driver, with a mole almost as large as his nose and no front teeth, stopped the car on a dime and glared at Ian hard in the rearview mirror. Finally he slammed his hand against the meter and turned around, scowling. "It's pouring rain," he said harshly. "You got a problem with my driving?" he asked in the same breathe, accusing.

Ian ignored him and glanced at the fee. He smirked and began digging in his pockets. Finally, as he thrust his hand forward, he said, "No, but I don't really like getting ripped off, if that's okay with you." Sarcastically, he said goodbye and let himself out.

Another cab never drove by. His walk back to his apartment had been a damned cold one. When he stepped inside, immediately shedding his soaked clothes, he shook almost violently. He coughed a few times into his fist. When the hacking stopped, Ian practically ran into the rather large bathroom with two sinks. His shower, large enough to be considered a second room, took too long to heat up, in his opinion. Probably it really only took less than a minute. But Ian was pretty sure his knees were frozen in place at this point. Figured that if he didn't thaw now he would likely become a cripple. Or worse. Frozen naked in his bathroom and eventually becoming his cat's favorite meal. He read somewhere that a cat would eat its owner before a dog would. His cat would probably not even wait for Ian's heart to stop beating.

Finally the water was hot enough.

Ian jumped in, almost tripping on his razor, which had apparently fallen to its demise while he was away. "Yessss," he breathed as the hot water soothed him. His goosebumps faded slowly.

He took an hour, only leaving the shower when the warmth dissipated to nearly nothing. He slid the door open and kept his eyes closed as he felt around for the towel he knew he'd seen lying on the rack. He absolutely hated opening his eyes when they were wet. The gritty feeling it gave them was one of the things Ian hated most, second being his career choice. He would never admit to it, though. Lip was the only one who really knew, and Ian hadn't even told him. Had just come back from his first deployment way back when, and Lip had given him a knowing look.

Finally he found the towel.

It smelled kind of musky. Of course, it had been wet before he left, which had been nearly seven months ago. So he was probably wrapping himself in germs. Drying off with mold. Ian didn't care enough to find another towel, though. He wrapped himself up and stepped out.

"You're back early," a voice thick with an English accent and soft, almost womanly, rang out.

Startled, Ian yelped and quickly opened his eyes. They stung. "Fuck," he breathed, holding his chest. "Tate," and he stopped to catch up with his heart, "so are you." A smile spread across his face.

The other man rolled his blue eyes. He smiled, though, genuine to the naked eye. His blonde curls were somewhat sweat drenched and he was only wearing a pair of black sweats. His thin body looked pinkish under the florescent light of the bathroom. "I told you we stopped production early," he said with mock sarcasm, then walked to the sink. As Ian dried himself and threw on the robe hung up near the toilet, Tate splashed his face.

Ian walked over and pulled his toothbrush from the bin, began brushing after wetting the bristles. With his mouth full of foam, and as he spat, Ian stated that the other man looked exhausted.

It only took Tate a blink to given reason. "Zumba," he said quickly. "The advanced video is a lot more. . .advance than I figured it would."

"Oh," Ian said, this time rinsing his mouth out and wiping his face with a hand towel.

They stood there looking each other over for a moment. Ian was the first to try and speak. However, before the words fell from his mouth, his attention was drawn to the scratches on Tate's right shoulder. The grin on his face quickly soured. As if mind reading, Tate looked at the marks as well. He mumbled something about the cat and pushed a curl away from his eye, obviously forcing himself to look anywhere but Ian.

Ian rolled his eyes and smirked, dimples popping into place. "A little wide for cat scratches," he said and ruffled his wet hair.

Tate's eyes widened briefly and his lips fell apart. "Ian—"

"Spare me," the redhead said, blunt as he threw a hand up to signal. He pushed past the blonde, still drying his hair. As he walked down the narrow hallway, aware of the eyes on his back, he said, "I'd rather pretend I don't know you screw around while I'm deployed." But he froze with his hand on the bedroom doorknob and rested his forehead against the wood. "He is gone, right?" he called over his shoulder.

Quietly, and still standing in the bathroom doorway, Tate answered yes.

With that, Ian threw open the door and waltzed in, shedding the robe instantly. He didn't want to wear it. Didn't know who had worn it previously. Probably it wasn't him. And he wasn't okay with that, but for some reason was afraid to do something about it.

He pulled out a fresh tan, vneck t-shirt and clean pair of boxer briefs from the dresser drawer. He didn't worry about pants until he figured he didn't want to be even close to naked around Tate right now. So he rustled through his walk in closet for a pair of black pants and threw those on before stomping to his modernized kitchen. As he guzzled down a bottle of cold water, he glared at the back of Tate's head. His supposed partner was sitting slumped on the leather sofa, head in his hands.

"You should be," Ian mumbled to himself.

"What?" Tate piped, voice hesitant.

Ian knew Tate was great at acting and didn't quite know when to be real.

He hated this.

"I said you  _should_  be ashamed," Ian said a little louder than normal, not quite the level of yell that he wanted to put forth. Then crushed his plastic bottle. Twisted it, cut his hand accidentally, and hissed through clenched teeth. The bottle clambered on the checkered tile, rolling under the dishwasher. "How long?" he asked when he bent down to collect his trash. "And were you planning on sharing this information with me?" Ian violently threw away the bottle.

"Just today," Tate almost stuttered. "And no," he trailed. There was no shame there, like there should have been.

"Damn," Ian said shaking his head. "Thanks for being honest for once."

Their argument escalated until Tate burst into tears and stormed into the bedroom. Ian felt like a real dick for some reason. And he shouldn't have, he knew. Yes, he had cut to the bone with his words just now, but Tate was heartless in his actions. So it was fair. Still, Ian's stomach ached because he felt like somehow he was in the wrong. He rubbed a hand across his face and sprawled out on his sofa, then punched the pillow behind him and cursed. His eyes stung and he wiped at his wet cheeks roughly. Ian was angry at himself for wasting tears over his lover. It was almost as foolish as when he wasted them time and time against over Monica. He tried to will away his sick chest and stared out the window. The rain beat hard against the glass, refusing to let up. Just like the silent tears that he wished would evaporate.


	6. Visitors

Ian awoke, still on the sofa. Groggy, he rolled out off and rubbed at his swollen eyes. Once his vision focused, he looked down the hall, remembering the events of last night. Slowly his eyes pulled away from the opened bedroom door and fell at his feet. A frown marred his spotted face. His hair, which had grown considerably longer while deployed, felt as if it looked ridiculous. It was nearly past his ears, and messily angled. When he looked at his reflection in the television, he was reminded of a younger version of himself. He didn't like the image. He wanted a haircut. Briefly he wondered if Tate was even still in bed. The door had been slammed last night. It being open probably meant that the other man had left way before Ian stirred. He wasn't sure how he felt about this anymore. Such had been the extent of their relationship for Ian's last two deployments. Ian wasn't sure what had gone wrong.

He then shook from a chill. Ian rubbed at his arms. As he began walking toward the bedroom door, he left his arms crossed. He hated feeling unsure of himself; always had. Peering in, he saw that Tate had in fact gone. His stomach jumped a little when he wondered if Tate would return. His heart sunk a little more and he leaned against the door frame, eyes squinted shut.

Finally, Ian exhaled and tried to perk up enough to eat breakfast. He only managed to eat one egg and take a bite of his toast. The rest of his food was fed to the garbage disposal.

And pretty much the rest of his day went exactly like breakfast, only he did try to watch Bill Maher's interview. Unfortunately, the cat chose this day to stretch against the television, as it had been warned not to, thus scratching the screen. And when Ian scowled and jumped up from the sofa, yelling, his pet became terrified. Rather than run away, as had been anticipated and welcomed by Ian, the grey and white cat crashed against the screen. Ian thought that he had asked Tate to fasten that down when they purchased it. Apparently Tate hadn't. Or perhaps the screws had worked themselves loose during one of Tate's many rendezvous. Either way, the fifty inch screen fell on its back and shit the bed.

"God damn it, Sam!" Ian growled, hurling the remote behind him, into the sofa.

Bushy tailed, the feline ran for cover. Who knew where. The cat was a damn menace. Ian wasn't sure why he kept such poor company. Even his pets turned out to be assholes. He huffed and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head as he approached the broken tv.

"You suck, Sam," Ian mumbled. "I should have you put down. Get myself a fish, instead."

Getting down on his knees, Ian pushed the television stand aside. He propped the flat screen up on the tile to examine it. It was unfixable. The crack in the back was not only deep, but had split off toward the front. It would cost less to get a new one. Ian held his breath and counted to ten.

Pursing his lips, the redhead lifted the screen and sat it back in place on the stand.

"Screw it," he sighed. "I don't even have the energy to be angry right now." And he knew he was only talking to himself. The cat had likely forgotten the great moral lesson of Tuesday, anyway.

He decided that maybe a run would calm his system. So Ian made himself change into a pair of blue and black jersey shorts and a thin, white, long sleeved t-shirt. He slipped on his socks and shoes, then locked the door behind him.

Hours later and unsure of the time, but aware that it was already dark, Ian headed back for his apartment. He'd left in such a hurry that he'd forgotten his phone and wallet. The only thing he had on him besides his keys was a wadded up bill, faded from being washed. He was starving. Finally. Up until his current ride on the Metro Rail, he had still been too distracted to think about food. As he exited the ride, he thought not to allow himself the hope of making amends with Tate, who was probably at his new interest's wherever doing whatever. He walked the three blocks to his apartment and fumbled with his gate keys before finally just buzzing in. It took the night watchman nearly ten minutes to open the gate. Ian had grown impatient. Being in the foul mood he was, he pushed the button and cussed at the guard, who Ian knew probably didn't give a damn. But he felt better to have taken his anger out some. When he entered the building, he was still plucking threw his rather large ring of keys, this time looking for the key to his number. So engrossed was he in looking over the ring as he stood in the center of the well-lit and lavishly decorated lobby that Ian failed to see the two figures approach him from the bench nearest the elevator.

"Ian!" a young woman's voice ran familiar in his ear.

Ian's head jerked up, then, and a surprised yet genuine smile leapt to his face. "Debs?" he said, still grinning. He looked away from his sister to the taller person beside her. "Lip? What are you two doing here?"

Lip smiled back and Debbie flung herself against Ian in a suffocating embrace. Her long auburn hair tickled Ian's nose, and he brushed at it while trying to hug her back. Lip stood by watching, chuckling with his hands in the pockets to his black slacks. Before Lip was given his chance to explain, Debbie grabbed hold of her brother's hand and began erratically describing her and Lip's long and turbulent flight. And how they had gotten lost trying to find his address. And then she moved on to saying how much she loved the building. All this as Ian ushered them into the elevator and up to his apartment. Debbie, Ian had decided his first time going home after boot-camp four years ago, had unfortunately inherited their mother's bipolar disorder. And naturally he had guessed right.

After he opened his door and let them inside, only feeling his heart flutter negatively for a second, Ian turned his head back at his brother. Debbie ran inside, in awe as she raved about his place.

"Has she been taking her medicine?" Ian mouthed to lip.

"Does it seem like it?" was Lip's mouthed answer.

And no, it didn't. Which made Ian believe that his siblings' visit to his home was not under good circumstances. For one, none of his family had ever visited him; Ian had always flown out to see them when he was home and had a chance. As often as he could, really. Which unfortunately wasn't often enough. For two, he knew Debbie well. She was probably his second favorite, after Lip. And Ian knew that, since being diagnosed, Debbie was obsessed with not becoming their mother. Which meant that she never missed her pills. Unless she was feeling super depressed.

"What's wrong?" Ian asked, firm and frowning. Still standing in front of the open door with Lip behind him.

Debbie froze mid sentence, stood stock-still and swallowed hard at her favorite brother. She glanced at Lip, then burst into tears. She was tall now, and while heavier set than Fiona, one of the most beautiful young women in Chicago, certainly South Side. Debbie's mood disorder hadn't taken anything away from her personality either, unless she was off of her medication. So seeing his seemingly strong willed sister fall to her knees in tears hurt more than finding out he wasn't wanted. Again.

Ian heard Lip groan and rub his cocked head. Turning to face Lip, Ian crossed his arms. "Well? Now I know something is definitely wrong."

"It's Fiona," Lip said, glum.

And Ian's heart just about stopped. He couldn't register what had just been said to him for a minute. Actually, nothing had really been said except that Fiona was the subject. And obviously an upsetting one. But that was enough. Ian swallowed hard and scanned Lip's down trodden face. "What?" he asked, afraid that any more bad news after his return from having to kill children would finally shatter him.

And Lip, after collecting Debbie off of Ian's floor and walking her over to the sofa, began telling Ian all about the last month in the Gallagher circle. Ian could hardly keep a grip on the sandwich in his hand. He suddenly lost his appetite all over. Debbie was holding tightly to Lip, obviously trying to collect herself.

"What the hell is the matter with her?" Ian practically screamed. "Has she lost her mind?"

At the sound of his anger, Debbie lost control again, wiping at the fresh tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Lip hugged her with his free arm as he watched his brother pace in front of the huge window. When the sixteen year old began shivering, Lip rubbed the arm in his grasp and put his head against hers. "Screaming isn't helping things," he commented.

Ian glared at him. After a short staring contest, an exasperated Ian went into his kitchen and threw away the sandwich. He leaned all the way down on his sink, resting his now hot forehead against the cold steel. He held down the switch for the garbage disposal, let it overtake the silence. Finally, he let go. "We can't let her do this," he said quietly. His stomach was in knots.

"You think I haven't tried to stop her?" Lip snapped.

Debbie excused herself to the rest room, halting the conversation momentarily to get directions.

"She won't fucking listen to anyone," Lip continued. "I mean, the doctor couldn't be making it any more clear to her what her options are, and the fucking reason why, really, she only should have one choice here, given the slim chance of the other one holding out. Extremely fucking thin chance."

"God," Ian breathed, eyes a maddening mixture of fury and despair. "She's insane to even consider going through with the remainder of the pregnancy."

"Right?" Lip pulled out his pack of smokes and a lighter, held them up as if asking if he was allowed to smoke inside. But yet had already lit his cigarette.

Ian waved him off. Then, after a second thought, walked over and grabbed one for himself.

"Well," Lip blew smoke and scratched at his head, "she's Fiona. . ."

Stuttering for a second, Ian gained his train of thought. "What happened? She was doing fine when I spoke with her and Vee on webcam this past Christmas."

"I dunno," Lip said, "the doctor said she developed gestational diabetes. Since she hasn't been going to her appointments, no one knew this. So she developed pre-eclampsia. And it's fatal if they don't catch it in time and treat it. Her insides are basically bleeding out slowly."

"Fuck," Ian nearly chocked.

Then Lip laughed bitterly and sucked down his cigarette. He let the stub burn in between his fingers until it stung him and fizzled out. Following suite with Ian, Lip dropped it on the tile with the ashes. "It's fucked up because," Lip continued, crestfallen "they said Fiona can be fine. Come out of this in one piece if she'll just let them induce her labor."

Ian shook his head, lifting his feet up onto the sofa and holding around his knees. "And she won't because the baby isn't far enough along to survive outside of her womb yet," Ian said knowingly, having finally pieced his sister's train of thought together.

"Basically."

There was a moment of silence between the two men before Ian scrunched up his brow and looked toward the hallway. When he called out her name, his voice was confused and still scratchy from his sadness. When Debbie didn't answer, both men flew into a rush of panic and ran toward the bathroom. When they reached it, Ian was the first to rattle the knob. Meanwhile, Lip banged and told Debbie to open up.

"I'm fine!" she finally hollered back, voice strained. "My stomach just hurts! Go away!"

Slightly embarrassed, Lip and Ian apologized and walked back to the sofa. All was quiet, both lost in thought. And when Ian finally spoke, Lip was the first to see Debbie walk toward them and lean on the edge of the hallway wall, holding her sleeve tightly around her forearm. "I'll pack my stuff. Maybe I can talk some sense into her," Ian said and hoped those words were not hollow.

Lip nodded and patted his brother's socked foot, his eyes never leaving Debbie's busy hand.


	7. It's Final

His siblings had camped out in his spare bedroom that night, had gone to eat a very frowny and quiet breakfast at a Starbucks around the corner. And now, Lip and Debbie were sitting in Ian's living room while he packed two suitcases full of clothes and other necessities. His cat weaved around his ankles. The only sound in his ears, besides the soft purring, was the sound of the suitcase zippers.

"How long are you back for?" Lip asked, his voice booming in the quiet.

"Supposed to be four months," Ian called back, pressing hard on the smaller suitcase so that the zipper would go. He received no response, and assumed that Lip was satisfied with the answer. Bending down, Ian picked up his pet. The cat's purr was erratic and probably louder than most. Its nose was dripping wet for some reason when it purred. Holding the cat against his chest, Ian looked toward his open bedroom door and asked who he would be staying with, or should he plan on a lengthy hotel stay.

"I'd say you could stay with Amy and me, but Sely's having her foreign exchange friends over for the next month. I'd imagine Jimmy could use company while Debs is at school," Lip called.

"Does he mind cats?" Ian asked, sitting the nuisance on his unmade bed.

"Probably not."

Wordlessly, Ian pulled the pet carrier from his closet and wrangled the cat inside.

When everything was ready, Ian feeling as if he was forgetting something but knowing he always did that, the redhead walked out and sat his things in front of the door. He then turned called out that they were going to miss the flight if they weren't quick about this. "The Metro is especially busy around this hour," Ian said.

His brother and sister stood and stretched.

"You're the one who took forever," Lip smirked. "You're more of a girl than Debs, here," he finished, patting his sister's shoulder.

Blushing a little, Ian shook his head fast and turned around, bending to collect his things once more. "Yeah, well, I dunno how long I'll be staying," he mumbled, "so I packed a lot."

And on his way to standing, Ian was nearly thrown back by the opening door. He huffed out a startled bark at first, heard Debbie gasp, then glared at the blonde now standing before him.

Behind him, Lip ushered Debbie into the spare room. His oldest brother had the sense to give him space, sometimes. Ian had spilled his guts last night. And Lip, having been one of the only family members of his to actually have met Tate, had recognized the growing situation at hand probably before it even registered in Ian's mind. Ian stood there staring at Tate, and scowled. He put down his bags and stepped aside so that the other man could enter.

Tate looked confused, glancing at the bags, and must have taken to the wrong idea, because he crossed his arms and laughed hatefully.

"That's just like you Ian," Tate began, "It's as if you haven't wanted us to make if from the start. You're a self-fulfilling prophesy! Walking, talking, contradiction!" Before Ian could jump all over him with anger, Tate pushed further. "Well leave, but know that you do are  _not_  welcome back into this life," he said, pointing to himself. "I've had it up to my brows with your constant leaving. Deployment and then straight to Chicago! You're piratically here for only a month before you leave again!" He shook and pointed at the door, ever dramatic. "And it's every time. Just go!"

And Ian didn't know why, but he burst into a laughter he hadn't thought he was capable of. "Fuck you, Tate" he said, wiping at his watering eyes. "This isn't even about you. Few things are."

Tate's face, a mixture of anger and loss, finally melted back into a state of confusion.

Ian wetted his lips and smiled at Tate. Very reminiscent of a bright and sunny horror movie. "Fiona's in the hospital," he said, "she might be dying."

Taken aback, and obviously feeling ashamed, Tate put his hands on his hips and looked down. "Oh," he barely said. "What's—"

"Don't pretend to suddenly care," Ian snapped. He could feel himself slipping. Why the fuck was he so fragile, he screamed inwardly. He wasn't supposed to feel vulnerable anymore.

"Ian," Tate cleared his throat, his voice wet and cracked, "I had no idea. I'm sorry."

Rolling his eyes, Ian crossed his arms and stared past Tate, locking his vision onto the door. He sucked in a deep breath. He held it. There was a long silence before Tate reached out and grabbed Ian's wrist. Finally, the soldier looked at him, eyes swollen from unwanted tears. "Let go of me," Ian hissed.

"Please, let," Tate paused as Ian ripped free, ". . .let me make all of this up to you," he finally said.

Ian rubbed at his wrist. "I don't even know if I still want you to," he said dryly.

And Tate sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and middle finger, saying, "At least let me try."

Six hours later, Ian was walking out of the Chicago airport with his siblings, and for the first time in the three years that they were together, with Tate as well. When they arrived at Fiona and Jimmy's basement apartment in a slightly better side of the Chicago Ian had grown up in, the first thing he did was give his brother-in-law a quick side hug and ask how his sister was.

"About the same," Jimmy sighed and sat back in his recliner. "Except now she's saying that she's made her peace," he bit out.

Tate sat their bags down near the entrance and stood back from the gathering pieces of Ian's family, uncomfortable, listening.

Ian sat beside of Debbie on the love seat and Lip sat on the arm of the sofa. The living room was compact and dimly lit. Various books and scribbled on notepads littered the coffee table, and a light was on in the hallway. Running water could be heard coming from the bathroom.

"When did Liam get back?" Debbie asked, sitting on her hands and rocking a little.

Jimmy sniffed and looked down the at the book bag by his feet. "He came in a few hours after you two left," he said. As if a second thought, he quickly added, "Monica didn't stick around, though."

At the mention of their mother's name, the three siblings squirmed. The water cut off. Ian was the first to break the silence when he called for Tate to stop being a stranger. Although, technically, Tate was almost a complete stranger to Ian's family. Tate sat on the Sofa, far side of Lip. Ian introduced him to Jimmy, who nodded and reached across the coffee table to shake Tate's hand. And although everyone, even Tate, spoke for a few moments about Ian's staying with Jimmy, the cat, and Jimmy not knowing which room they would sleep in, given that Liam was back now, Jimmy seemed understandably elsewhere. Finally the bathroom door opened and steam wafted out. Ian turned his head and watched as his youngest sibling dried his head with a towel, tugged down a navy blue t-shirt over his nappy head, and tossed the towel back into the bathroom before turning out the light. The six year old stood at the edge of the hallway, making his way toward them. He big brown eyes met with Ian's and he grinned widely, gunning for the back of the loveseat. Liam hopped the back and accidentally jabbed Ian in the gut, making Ian grunt and Debbie fuss. But Ian laughed and hugged Liam. "Missed you this summer," Ian commented.

Liam chewed at the corner of his upper lip. It was habit he had developed recently. His childlike tsk and light laugh actually brought a faint smirk to Jimmy's sullen face. "Yeah," Laim said. "Think we were in Ohio."

Wanting to ask what his mother was doing in Ohio, but holding back because he didn't really want to care, Ian knuckled his brother's head and told him that he was glad he could see him. Liam yelped in mock pain and shoved away from Ian's grasp. He made himself comfortable between the two red-haired siblings and kicked his short legs. Then, just noticing that there was someone he didn't know in the room, Liam, with childish lack of tack, asked who Tate was. Somewhat rudely. A trait he had probably inherited from Frank. As he had grown, Liam was surprisingly the most like their father in personality. Some of his behavior, Ian knew, was from constantly being kidnapped and then abandoned by their Monica. Liam had simply inherited more of Frank's mommy issues than the rest of the Gallagher clan.

Tate blinked at Liam and pulled his hands into the pockets of his tan pants. He leaned forward a little. "I'm Tate," he introduced himself voice friendly, "and you must be Liam."

"Hi," Liam said, indifferent. Ian sensed Liam's lack of understanding, but before he could clarify, the first grader said, "Why are you here, Tate?"

Tate laughed, awkwardly, "I'm a friend of Ian's."

And realization flashed across Liam's face. Fiona must have ranted in front of Liam about Ian and Tate at some point, Ian thought briefly. She had only ever spoken to his three year in boyfriend over the phone, but it was obvious how Fiona felt about Tate since she never hid it when Ian visited without his boyfriend.

"I think we should get to the hospital," Lip said, as if he hadn't been paying attention to any of the conversation.

Liam's short attention span turned to Lip and the child hopped down from the sofa, pulling up at his jeans. He ran to the coat rack near the door and quickly put on his puffy black coat. He did all of this in what seemed a single movement, and before any of the others were off of their seats.

Their drive to the hospital had been almost as silent as the initial welcome to Jimmy and Fiona's place. Ian sat up front with Jimmy, unconsciously distancing himself from Tate, who sat in the back, squished between Liam, Debbie, and Lip. Jimmy let them off in front of the entrance, then went to park his blue Jetta. Lip commented that Jimmy liked to be alone more often than not, since Fiona's admission. Which was very not Jimmy, but Ian understood.

Walking into her room was both a relief to see her and a deep sadness. Ian knew before he even opened his mouth, not even waiting for the air to clear, that Fiona was not going to let anyone end her pregnancy. That didn't stop him from trying for the next hour and a half. But she never relented. Her decision, she said, was final.

The visit was a constant sea of Gallaghers in and out of Fiona's room. Jimmy was the only one to remain in the chair beside of Fiona's bed from the time he arrived. Never left once, not even to follow Ian, Carl, and Lip to the cafeteria. Debbie was almost as much a constant as Jimmy, but left to take Liam to an Ihop when he began complaining. Tate mostly stuck as close to the door as possible, saying very little after his initial introduction to Fiona. She didn't want him there, and her glares made that obvious. Finally, he said he wasn't feeling well, and went for walk.

In the cafeteria, really just playing with his food, Carl practically threw down his fork. He scowled and rubbed both palms against his shaved head. The stubble there made a scratching sound. His brother's stared at him. There were all three seated at a round table in the furthest angle of the cafeteria. Near a window with the shade drawn. It was fast, violent, and loud. Carl blew heavily between his teeth, making his lips balloon out. He let go of his head, growling, banged his elbows down on the table three times. His plastic glass of soda spilled down the front of his class hoodie. He still wore it, even though he had dropped out around Thanksgiving. He would be graduating this year, if not for that. Among other complications.

"Shit, Carl!" Lip said and steadied the table.

Ian grabbed hold of Carl's sleeve and yanked him into a state of calm.

Most people were looking at the trio strangely, but too afraid to say anything simply because of the terrifying look on Carl's face.

"I can't believe this," Carl said and jerked his arm away from Ian. He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the giant wet spot on his stomach. His voice had grown exceptionally deep and cigarettes had not been kind to him.

"I don't think any of us want to," Ian said, sighing and propping his face up.

Lip stared out of a crack in the shutter, crossed his arms over his chest.

Carl hiccupped a pessimistic laugh.

Ian decided that he wanted a change of subject. It had been almost a year since he'd seen any of his family, and this was entirely too depressing. So he asked Carl how his probation was going.


	8. Snow

He was falling. His heart fought to flee his chest. He couldn't speak for the blood in his lungs. When he finally hit the ground, the wind left him. He struggled to open his eyes, to move. His skin was hot. He felt sticky. And he knew he was going to die, so he closed his eyes and prayed it would be fast. When the gun went off, Ian gasped. He jerked awake in the olive green recliner and focused his eyes around him. The buzzing from Fiona's machinery brought him back to reality. Ian swallowed and leaned forward, rubbing his eyes harshly with his palms. He cursed in whispers and looked over to the bedside clock near his sleeping sister. It was just after midnight. Fiona's forced slumber had her out cold. Ian watched her chest rise and fall, almost in synch with what Carl referred to as the Terminator. Really it was just an IV drip. Ian thought it did sound very much like an angry cyborg, though.

Before falling asleep, Ian had cracked the window. The room had become stuffy but now was extremely chilly. Especially so.

Quickly going to close it, Ian stood before the glass, breath fogging a small circle, and watched tiny snowflakes fall. He wasn't sure how long he stood there. A nurse came and went, having check Fiona's wellbeing and pulse. Naturally this woke his sister, whose reflection he saw sitting up.

"Where is everyone?" Fiona asked. Her voice was groggy and weak.

Ian inhaled and closed his eyes. His sister's reflection in the window was even horrifying. As if she was already a ghost.

"Well?" Fiona pressed.

"Home, I guess," Ian finally responded, tight.

"Good. They need the rest," she said. "This isn't healthy for the kids."

Ian shook his head. "It's certainly not for you," he griped.

"Don't start with me," Fiona warned.

And after two weeks of pleading, Ian knew that it was doing him no good to start fights with Fiona. She wasn't giving up her baby. No one, it seemed, could get through to her. Her condition, thankfully, had not gotten worse. Of course, it was not getting better, and it was only a matter of time before Fiona started slipping through their fingers. Ian was beyond angry with his eldest sister. But he held his tongue and stepped away from the window. Arguing with her again was pointless because it only made her heart rate go up, and that was dangerous. Ian excused himself for a smoke.

Ian sat outside, staring off into the dark. His ass kind of hurt because of the damp cement bench. The umbrella above him didn't do much to keep him covered. The parking-lot was pitch black, contrasted by the bright flakes attempting to smother everything in sight. Really the cigarette he held between his fingers was just burning out on its own. He took his only draw from it and tossed it away. Ian stuffed his hand into the pockets of his jacket, the hood over his head, and just breathed. His body wasn't used to the cold anymore. He could feel his nose turning red. And he wasn't sure how long he stayed out there. Just sure that it had been long enough to make it difficult to unclench his fists. It was a nurse who came out to usher him inside.

Numbly, he sat back in his recliner, aware of Fiona's big eyes watching him. Probably waiting for Ian to snap at her as he had the night before. Ready to snap back. Instead, Ian sighed heavily, pursed his lips, and swiped the remote from her night stand. He cocked his head and tossed the remote between his hands. "Are you going back to sleep any time soon?" he asked.

She shook her head, still watching him with a wary eye.

Ian tilted his head back right and flipped on the box television hanging from the ceiling. He made himself comfortable, one leg propped up on the recliner's arm. As he flipped, Fiona seemed to relax.

"Wait, stop!" Fiona chirped. "Leave it. I love this show."

He frowned and stared at her from the corner of his eye. "Really, Fi? I thought I was the gay one," he said and rolled his eyes, "I'm not watching this."

"Why not?" she demanded. "It's good," as if she was also convincing herself.

Ian eventually gave in and sat the remote back on the nightstand. So they watched Fiona's program.

"Why is everyone so obsessed with Vampires lately?" Ian commented. "This is awful."

Fiona waved her arm and shushed him.

Initially, he rolled his eyes and went back to idly watching, but suddenly the idea of pissing Fiona off occurred to him. Ian smirked and watched her slyly. The scene playing out was quite funny to him, and so he began mimicking it mockingly. Fiona quickly grew irritated, yelling at him. Finally, she gripped her pillow and began beating him as best she could. They both fell into fits of laughter. But the fun stopped when Ian lost it; his laughter quickly turning to tears. Fiona cut herself short, startled by the flipped mood.

"Ian," she trailed, "what's wrong?"

As if she didn't know.

"You," Ian growled, "this!" He swallowed his emotions, or at least tried, and glared at her. "Why are you doing this? We can't lose you, Fiona!"

Fiona scowled and shook her head. She opened her mouth but closed it. "Ian, I can't go through this again," she breathed. "I mean it. I physically shouldn't."

He held his head and leaned all the way back in his chair.

Fiona watched him. She sat far back against her pillows, cradling the one she had used as a weapon, and fiddled with the pillow case. Finally, she broke the silence. "This baby is alive in here," she said, holding her swollen stomach. "I've gone way past the point of mass of tissue to human life. My baby," she closed her eyes and a tear inched down her face. Quickly, she wiped it away, harshly. "My baby," she started back, "this is my  _baby_. I won't kill it to save myself. This baby comes first."


	9. Take it Outside

Part Two: Fucked

He had practically been home a month now, and his bones were still shy from cold. Thankfully, April would be here in only three days. Which meant the weather would warm up. Already it was warm enough for a quick jog. And certainly he needed one because Tate was about to drive him over the edge. Ian needed a way to burn off his anger. Running usually did that for him. So about an hour before the family was to visit Fiona, Ian did what he was apparently best at lately, and sneaked out of Jimmy's house with no one noticing. From the streets, he heard Tate and Carl arguing over something petty. Debs, as usual, played the ref. Lip's car was nowhere in sight or ear shot, and the eldest Gallagher brother was probably going to be late again because of covering Jimmy's shift at work. Whatever work that was, Ian was still unclear. The two men didn't seem apt to share such information. And so Ian trotted down the street, the noise from his brother-in-law's home growing ever silent. He made it a few blocks, into the heart of Chicago, and then popped in his headphones. He ran through the entire playlist. Then Ian stopped, realized just where he had run to. He smirked to himself and shrugged, pulling out his headphones.

"Fuck it," he said to himself.

Ian walked into the Kash and Grab. He found himself frozen in the doorway momentarily. Here, it was like time stood still; absolutely nothing had changed. Ian was sick with nostalgia.

"Ian Gallagher?" a voice called, stirring Ian from his thoughts.

Ian turned around and widened his eyes at the woman behind the counter. He smiled and took off his cap, ruffling his hair. "Hey, Linda," Ian greeted. "It sure has been a while, huh?"

Linda's usual tone of voice was still there as she informed the redhead those five years honestly weren't that long. And, she told him as she walked over to give him a hug, Ian had been in town since, just hadn't visited.

"Some gratitude," she chided and mock slapped his arm as their hug ended.

Ian left smiling whilst eating a glazed doughnut. He found himself reminiscing during his entire ride on the El to the hospital. Most of the memories he let in brought a smile to his face. Others he pushed away before opening cans of worms. And he stopped into the gift shop before going up to Fiona's room. Bought his big sister the stupidest looking stuffed animal he could find and tied a candy-bar to its paw. After he got the elevator, and still grinning, Ian threw open Fiona's door. He had been prepared to announce his late arrival and apologize, giving the bear as a peace offering. He had not been prepared for what actually went down.

Before him, his entire family was standing around, screaming loud and wildly while tugging at the man who stood center stage, cleaving to Fiona's bed and barking angrily. The entire room now smelled of booze and grime. Tate, of course, had resigned himself to the windowsill, wide eyed and seemingly disgusted by the display.

"Frank!" Ian yelled and dropped his bear and candy. Immediately, he stormed forward and helped Jimmy yank Frank away from a sobbing Fiona. As Ian thrust his father into the hallway, Lip held a practically foaming at the mouth Jimmy back. Carl, on the other hand, ran after Ian and Frank. And so ensued an all-out brawl between two sons and their father. Right there in the hospital hallway.

Nurses flocked forward, trying to break it up just as Carl slammed his fist into Frank's gut. Ian picked up Frank then, only vaguely aware that his family, even Tate, was also trying to stop the fighting. Fighting over exactly what, Ian wasn't sure. He just knew that obviously Frank had fucked up again. And he also knew that his temper was off the handle at this point. Which is exactly why both Ian and Carl chased their father across town. Right smack into the Alibi Room. If others had chased after the trio, they had long since given up the run. But not Ian. As Carl leaned forward, grabbing his knees and catching his breath in front of the door, Ian ran right in, not caring if his lungs burned. He jumped a table to throw Frank into the jukebox. The occupants of the bar stirred, some interested, some fleeing, some yelling for the fight to stop. Whatever. Ian could hardly hear for the adrenaline pumping in his ears. Lip once told him a couple years back that the Army had made Ian a little crazier when he fought. Almost like he went into autopilot. Which was possibly true, and Ian may have thought harder on it, had he not been too interested in seeing just how hard he could smash a beer bottle across Frank's beaten face. Might have tried to stop himself.

"Holy shit!" someone screamed and yanked Ian away just as the bottled busted.

Glass went everywhere. A woman yelled that she was calling the cops. Finally Carl came in, but someone stopped him before he could restart the fight.

"Put your God-damned phone away!" the voice behind Ian's ear barked. "Everything's fine now!"

Ian stumbled forward as the grip on his arms shoved him slightly. He almost tripped over the glass, but steadied himself. He was dizzy kind of, almost delirious with a now rage. He held to the bar as he turned to see just who had interrupted him.

"Right, Frank?" the voice bellowed as the man yanked Ian's father off of the floor.

Ian stared hard at the voice's face. The man was not quite as tall as Frank, but slightly more muscular. He was young by the sound of him. His red shirt was a little too big, and his face was pale and scruffy. His nose was narrow and stick-straight and his lips downturned. The man ran a thumb across his lip as he stared at a bloodied Frank. Finally, Ian's vision focused.

Mickey.

"He's leaving," Mickey said vehemently, staring hard at Frank, who could hardly stand. "Frank!" he called the man's drifting attention.

Frank wavered, spit blood, and finally looked at Mickey. "Yeah," he said and held up his hands, nodding his whole body almost. He slumped his way to the door, but Ian could only see this from the corner of his eyes. Ian was too focused on the ghost from his past. He felt like he had been punched in the gut, and not because Frank had fought back.

Frank turned at the door, holding the handle. He pointed to Ian. "I never wanted any of this!" he yelled. "I was only trying to help your poor mother!"

And Ian heard that, even through his nervousness. He snapped his gaze to Frank and must have looked insane, because even Mickey stared at him with wide eyes. Although, probably for more than just because of his expression. Probably because the two hadn't seen each other since before Mickey tried to murder Frank. But none of that was what mattered right now.

"What the hell are you talking about, you piece of shit?" Ian yelled, holding his feet firmly in place because he knew if he went at Frank again, he was going to lose complete control. "What does Monica have to do with your upsetting Fiona?"

Frank shook his head and began leaving. Ian's eyes went wide and he lurched forward, pouncing again. Carl was being held behind the bar by another familiar face, so the younger of the two still couldn't join in. A firm grip to his bicep stopped Ian in his tracks. Mickey leaned in close from the side. Frank fled.

"I don't know what the fuck's going on," he whispered harshly in Ian's ear, "but you gotta take that shit somewhere else."

Ian felt his hair stand up. Frowning deeply and breathing heavily through his nostril, he turned his head and looked at Mickey before looking down at the hand on his arm. He then went back to staring into Mickey's face. The two must have looked dangerously angry because Ian heard Kevin asking them to back away from each other. And really he would have if everything wasn't hitting him at once. Really. But he didn't. Instead, Ian made one swift movement and head-butted Mickey hard. However, the effect was not what Ian expected. Mickey's head was used to things like that.

"Fuck," Mickey spat and held his bleeding nose. Then he squinted his eyes and bared his teeth.

And for a second time that day, Ian found himself rolling on the floor throwing punches. Only this time, Ian was the one getting hit the most.


	10. Open Sore

When the duo first crashed into the bar and Kevin sicked Mickey on them, Mickey had only recognized Frank. Probably because Ian had been moving at an alarming rate. Really Mickey hadn't known who he grabbed until the familiar scent of Ian Gallagher wafted up his nose. Right then, Mickey had thought he was going to lose his lunch. But he'd collected himself fast. His gut reaction being to act normal. Pretend he hadn't ever fucked the guy he was shoving. But all of those plans flew right out the window when Ian took that first shot. Now, after the fight had been broken up a few cups of blood later, the bar was closed early. This was an extremely rare occurrence since Kevin Ball began calling the shots so far as his Alibi Room was concerned.

Mickey sat at a table in the back popping a few of his fingers back into place. As he did this, Carl ran out. Probably to find Frank. Mickey watched Ian and Kevin's conversation. He could barely hear maybe three words of each sentence; completely unable to make clear any of it. Really he would have bolted already, but it was payday and fuck if Mickey was going to let Ian Gallagher's showing up out of the blue stop his late night pizza run. He was fucking starving. All he had upstairs was spoiled food from a month ago and the bag of chips he'd stolen from a Walgreens the night before. So he was getting his pay. Right fucking now. Ian or no.

Mickey stood and stalked behind the bar. He propped himself up with his fist, hip against the counter. And ignored Ian's entire presence. Mickey glared at Kev while worrying his busted lip. He could feel his eye swelling shut. "Where's my money?" he asked, gruff but too tired now to be much of a dick.

Kev looked up at Mickey while leaning on his elbows in front of Ian. He turned his stare back on the redhead, watching him sip at his drink. Finally Kev waved his hand towel in the direction of the drawer behind him. "Under the wine shelves," he sighed out.

Mickey didn't hesitate in rummaging through the envelopes to find the one with his name on it. Slamming the drawer shut, he speed walked past them towards the back staircase. As he rounded the corner, taking the first step, he heard Ian's voice, 'So he's living here, too?' And Mickey didn't know why the distain behind those words caused a faint pang in his chest.

Because he hadn't even really thought about Gallagher in years. Not since he had last gotten out of juvie and fled Chicago. Not since Indianapolis. Time makes people forget things, though. Or at least represses the ache until remembering comes back to bite said person in the ass. And Mickey had done a lot of repressing. So he knew that all too well. But really if he was being honest, Mickey would have admitted to himself that he often had brief thoughts of Ian Gallagher. For reasons mainly pertaining to Mickey's own battle with his sexual identity. But he really didn't like to think about that, and squinted the thoughts away. He cursed under his breath.

He practically ran back down the stairs after grabbing his thick coat and counting out his bills. And he was both bothered and relieved to find Ian and Kevin gone. But his stomach jumped when he saw two shadows moving just outside. They were talking.

He took the back-door out and locked it behind him.

Ian stood outside and spoke with Kev for a few moments. His eyes constantly flicked up to the balcony, where a light was on. And even as he asked the older man if Frank had been mentioning anything about Monica, Ian's train of thought was elsewhere. As he and Kev parted ways, a short while and a few cigarettes later, Ian trudged off towards Jimmy and Fiona's place. He clenched and unclenched his fist as he walked, not really paying attention to where he stepped. He was more focused on his probably broken hand. At least a few fingers, anyway. Finally he stuffed his hand into his pants pockets because the cold made his injured fingers hurt worse. He hissed and winced at the sting in his broken hand when it moved against his pants. With his good arm, he wiped at his bloodied nose. The scabs had already formed, but he accidentally scraped one and blood smeared across his white sleeve. Ian cursed under his breath because the shirt he had probably just ruined wasn't even his.

Tate was bitchy about his clothes.

When Ian entered Jimmy's darkened door, he quickly removed the garment and made his way into the laundry room. The place was empty. He guessed everyone was still at the hospital, or maybe out looking for him. Carl had run after Frank, probably. Then he remembered that visiting hours ended at ten o'clock, almost an hour ago. Ian knew someone would be home soon. So he quickly set to scrubbing the shirt. Probably more to make him forget other things more so than because he was worried about pissing Tate off. Tate did enough of that for both of them. But despite his efforts, Ian found himself staring at the now pink stains and wondering back to Mickey. It really seemed like it had been ages. Ian wondered briefly if Mickey cared about the blood Ian had seen streak down the front of his short when Mickey's nose pulled a geyser. Probably not because Mickey had never given much thought to petty possessions.

Ian sighed and stopped scrubbing. He really wished he hadn't seen Mickey again.

He had spent a better part of his past thinking about Mickey Milkovich and what could have been. And really, he was sick of dwelling. Sick of that faint heart ache. For the last few years, he hadn't thought about that man enough to mention it to even himself. He had finally been free. Yet he already knew the wound had been reopened. There was going to be no shutting off his thoughts now. Now when, in his mind at least, he could still feel the man's hands bruising his skin. Could still smell that scent of sweat, fresh earth, chocolate, and something that somehow only Mickey emitted. Not when he couldn't get Mickey's face out of his mind. Couldn't stop picturing how much older Mickey looked. Grown. Slightly more aged than he should have been at 24. Probably from stress.

Yet just like a light, he pushed his thoughts back when he heard the front door slam and Tate's voice bellowing through the walls.

Ian frowned shoved the shirt into the washer. He turned the dial. "I'm in here!" he snapped.

Tate stomped in and leaved on the doorframe. He crossed his arms. His face was red and his eyes hard. His hair looked a mess. He licked his lips hatefully and shook his head as he asked Ian where in the hell he had run off to? And where was Frank because Ian's family was in hysterics looking for the three of them.

"Carl's not back yet?" Ian asked face melting into knowing concern.

"He's not with you," Tate said. "That figures."

Ian shook his head, shrugging. He eyeballed the shaking washer and touched his swollen cheek. "Hope he hasn't killed Frank," Ian whispered to himself, honestly distraught.

"Well," Tate laughed without mirth and threw his arms up, "I tell you, Ian, I don't think I've experienced anything quite like this before. You're family," he continued even after Ian turned an angry eye at him, "is quite possibly one of the most bizarre groups I've yet to be around."

Ian sucked in a deep breath through his opened mouth, let it out loudly, and then gnawed his lip fiercely. He stepped up to Tate and moved the man aside. "I'm really getting sick of you saying shit like that," Ian growled as he made his way back into the living room.

"Well sorry if the truth hurts, love," Tate quipped sarcastically and plopped down in Jimmy's recliner.

Ian stared at him from behind the loveseat. Tate was looking at the powered off television, ignoring the glare. Ignored it that is, until Ian finally slammed his palms down on the wooden sofa back. The thud seemed much louder in the silence. He grabbed hold of a pillow and chucked it hard into Tate's startled face.

"You are the most apathetic person I know," Ian said. "Sometimes I think I hate you."

Tate just watched him, swallowing hard as he composed himself from the soft blow. He tossed the pillow to his feet and rubbed his hands against his jeans. "Piss off," Tate said and crossed his arms, staring back at Ian. His stare lacked confidence.

"Why don't you piss off," a voice rang out from the doorway.

Ian jerked his head in the direction, and Tate looked over his shoulder. Lip and Jimmy stood there, Jimmy holding a sleeping first grader. It had been Lip who had spoken. He was scowling at Tate and moving toward the recliner slow and angry. He stood there, too close to Tate's bubble, until the blonde stood and was brave enough to get in Lip's face.

"Don't," Ian said moving over to pull Lip back away from a ranting Tate. "You're just starting a fight. This isn't your business."

"Like hell it's not," Lip said and pulled away from Ian's grasp. He put his face a mere few inches from Tate, cocked his head and snarled. His eyes went wide and honestly scary. "You've been hanging on my last nerve since your ass got here," he hissed.

"I said stop," Ian barked and pushed his brother down into the sofa. "God," he let off, "what's wrong with you?" When he saw that Lip was staying put, albeit still livid, Ian turned to Tate and they both walked out back to have their spat in privacy.


	11. Mama

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Ian screamed and jumped up from his position in the cafeteria chair at the usual back table. "What the fuck, man?"

Lip sat down his fork and licked his bottom lip, eyes moving quickly, darting around as he stared at the marble. Searching for a right way to excuse himself, no doubt.

Tate frowned and pulled Ian back into his seat. And Ian complied, but only because he knew Tate couldn't stand when the Gallagher family started a scene.

A week had passed since Ian and Frank's fight. Fiona had finally started getting worse. The doctor's had her on oxygen now, and she was on a liquid only diet. Hooked up to more machinery than Ian thought was probably necessary. No one ate around her ever now, which was precisely why Tate, Ian, and Lip resorted, today, to a diet of ninety percent cafeteria garbage. Well, except for Tate, who rarely ate at all because, as he said, he was preparing for his shooting next month. Production on his play had been bumped up. Probably why he was in a better mood. Tate mistakenly thought they were leaving soon.

Lip finally sighed and, running his hands through his hair, said, "I thought we had enough to worry about."

"She was my best friend," Ian said, dumbfounded. "Have you been to see her?"

"Before you came, but not since," Lip said.

Ian stood up, waving his arms out in exasperation. "I'm going to see her," he said. "What room is she in?"

Then Lip looked up and on second thought said, "Six seventy. But I walked by her room earlier. The door was open and I was going in, but Mickey didn't look like he wanted company."

Ian felt his heart skip at the mention of Mickey's name. This apparently did not go unnoticed by Lip. Tate was oblivious as he texted someone. Supposedly his agent. Ian sat back down. "Mickey's here right now?" he couldn't stop himself before he asked.

Lip frowned. "Why do you care?"

"Because," Ian said as he played with his fries, "I ran into him at the Alibi last week. He picked a fight with me," he lied, "So I've been trying to avoid him."

It was a lame excuse and Ian knew it. Lip also suspected, but left well enough alone.

Later, and for a second time that day, Mickey was standing at the foot of his sister's bed. He had come and gone earlier. Went outside and huffed down three cigarettes. Walked the block. Went into a random bar and had a couple shots. And now he was back, slightly numb from the alcohol. Glad for it. He hadn't visited Mandy since they put her in this room. After that day, Mickey just didn't have the will to make himself come back. Yet here he was; finally, now that April was closing in. And Mandy of course hadn't changed. She was still in a coma. Still lying flat on her back and looking like she was just asleep. Like she would wake up any second. But the feeding tube and IV drip told otherwise.

Mickey sighed and removed his scarf. He tossed it in the corner along with his jacket. He shook the raindrops from his hair. His sweater clung to his front slightly from being damp and he rung it out some. The water puddled a little. He figured Mandy wouldn't mind, seeing as she was incapable of tripping through it right now. When he was satisfied, he plopped down in the uncomfortable wooden chair near the door. He leaned forward and cupped his hands, just watching his sister's chest rise and fall.

He wasn't sure what time it was, since there was no clock in the room. He used this as his excuse to himself when he eventually moved the chair beside of Mandy's bed and turned the television on to game show re-runs.

Mandy had always liked this shit. He was just watching it because the time was shown at the bottom corner. And because he was pretty good at guessing the answers to Family Feud.

At six o'clock, Mickey put his coat and scarf back on and left Mandy's room, leaving the television on. Kevin's bitch had said something about persons in a coma being able to hear things. Mickey didn't know if it was true, and wasn't going to sit there beside Mandy, talking. But if it was true, he figured Mandy would rather hear game shows, anyway.

When he stepped out into the rain again and looked back up in the direction of where Mandy's room was somewhere located, Mickey didn't think he would come back for a while.

He turned his attention to his pocket and fished out his smokes. He had a few left, and popped one between his lips. Then patted himself down for his lighter. He remembered throwing his coat down in the hospital, and assumed the lighter probably fell out.

"Shit," he mumbled, now surveying the area for another smoker.

He spotted one near the side of the building, back facing Mickey and smoke surrounding the person's form as he shivered in the rain, hood tight against his head. Mickey walked over, cigarette still in position. He spoke when he was a foot behind the other man. "Hey," he said, "you got a light?"

The man turned, head dipped as if trying to shield himself from the rain. The curls against his forehead were drenched and sticking to him. His mouth hung fish like around his own burning cigarette. He reached up and pulled it from his mouth, flicking the ash some.

Mickey laughed and rolled his eyes a little. "Saw you walk by my sister's room earlier," he said.

Lip breathed out smoke and nodded. He and Mickey had been running into each other a lot lately; since Lip had become a regular at the Alibi when Frank wasn't there. Sometimes even when he was. But Lip hadn't been about to tell his brother that.

"Yeah," Lip coughed. He sniffed because the rain was getting to his sinuses. "How is she?" he asked and held out a yellow lighter.

"Same," Mickey said and grabbed at the offered lighter. He lit up puffed at the menthol cigarette until it lit properly, damp sort of from the few raindrops that had hit it. "But then," he said as he inhaled then blew out, "you should know. You're there all the time."

Lip switched the direction of their conversation, "What made you decide to come by?"

Mickey shrugged. "Fuck if I know," he mumbled. "Curious."

Lip smirked, hearing the lie in Mickey's tone. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Headed that way now," Mickey said as he straightened out his scarf and began walking away.

Lip finished his smoke as he watched Mickey distancing himself only to disappear into a cab. He flicked out the butt and trotted back through the entrance.

Ian watched as Lip entered Fiona's room. He smelled strongly of smoke. Lip stood beside Jimmy as the brother-in-law stroked Fiona's sleeping head.

"They knock her out again?" Lip asked Ian, looking away from the display.

Ian nodded in silent response. Moments passes as Lip made himself comfortable on the floor near Ian. Finally, the older brother looked around the room, and as if he had just noticed the other person standing near the window, said, "Where have you been, Carl?"

Without turning, Carl cleared his throat and began his voiced reenactment of his time missing. And when he finished, even Jimmy was looking at him in shock, turned away from Fiona to watch the words fall from Carl's mouth. See the tears in the young man's eyes.

"She what?" Ian breathed. His heart pounded in his chest, threatened to erupt. He could only here the blood pumping in his ears. Beside of him, Lip looked as if he were about to scream. Because Ian guessed lip had run out of tears for Monica a long time ago. All the older man had left now was rage and disappointment.

Carl sat down on the wall and looked at his sleeping sister. Watched her large belly. "That's why Frank was in here the other day," he finally said, voice strained. "I beat it out of him."

Ian found himself breathing heavily through his mouth as his head went fuzzy.

"How long has she been. . ." Jimmy trailed, unsure of how to word his thought.

Carl looked at Lip, who was staring hard at Fiona. "Two days," he croaked.

And just as Lip was about to speak, Fiona's door opened and Tate waltzed in holding Liam's hand. Debbie stood beside of the tall Blonde, holding out a box of doughnuts. Smiling ear to ear. "I know we agreed not to eat in here," she said, "but Fiona told me it was okay just the once."

With the door opened still behind them, the trio stared at the glum people before them. Debbie's smile slowly faded and Tate asked what was wrong now.

And Lip finally spoke. His voice was hardened. "Our mother killed herself."


	12. Nightmare

The words rang through the air and made it thick. Debbie dropped the doughnuts and bits of glazed bread spilled about the floor. Ian felt as if he had put everything on mute. Because he saw Debbie crying while Lip stormed out, aw Jimmy run to console Debbie as Fiona stirred and Carl explained; saw Tate let go of Liam, who ran to a crying Fiona. Yet all Ian heard was a ringing in his ears. And he tried to shut down. Take himself away from this period of life where people around him were dropping like flies. A hand on his shoulder brought Ian back to reality. He jerked his chin up and looked into Tate's eyes. Thought maybe having Tate give him a reassuring hug should have brought him comfort instead of making his stomach sink further. Yet Ian endured the embrace.

"Do you need some air?" Tate asked softly.

Ian stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

The blonde walked Ian to the door. But Ian stopped and placed a hand on Tate's chest. Ian cleared his throat of the building lump and said he really just wanted to be alone for a bit. All of this was too much. Tate fought him on it but gave in quickly. As Ian left, he wished he cared that Tate hadn't followed him anyway.

Before long, Ian found himself on a different floor of the hospital. In a hallway, staring at a closed door and trying to decide if going in would make him feel better or worse. Mandy had always been one of the only people Ian had relied on for comfort. Even if sometimes it had only been over the phone. She couldn't provide him with that now, he knew. Couldn't sympathize and tell him to suck it up. But he went in anyway.

Mandy looked fine save for the IV drip and feeding tube; looked as if she were merely sleeping. Ian sighed heavily and stepped further into the room, nearly tripping over a small puddle of water. After he situated himself in the chair by her bed, Ian lost track of time fast. He simply sat there and stared out the window. At one point, an older nurse came in and brought him a blanket because, she said, he looked cold.

"Is she your girlfriend. . .sister?" the nurse asked Ian as she changed Mandy's drip.

"No," Ian said, watching the woman hook another bag to Mandy's stand. "My sister's in another wing. Mandy's a friend."

The nurse looked up at him and seemed torn about how to respond. Finally she settled for awkwardly giving her sympathy. "Would you like me to bring you a more comfortable chair?" she offered as she left. "We put that one in here because the fellow who usually sleeps in the recliner hasn't been by in a few weeks. We figured others could use it."

Ian was surprised Mickey had been sleeping in Mandy's room. It seemed out of character. But then, Ian guessed he had never really known Mickey as well as his younger self had liked to think.

At first he shook his head, said he was about to leave, really. It was ten o'clock, and his family was probably worried. But then Ian decided that maybe he wasn't ready to deal with the aftermath of Carl's big reveal.

"Actually," he said with a smile and the nurse halted again, "that'd be great." When she left, Ian pulled out his phone and texted Tate where he was at. Tate responded that he was at a hotel. They needed to not stay at Jimmy's right now, he wrote. Not with everything that was going on. Ian disagreed, but calmed himself by simply not responding. He then phoned Jimmy and asked how Debbie was holding up. Jimmy said she and Liam were fine. He had taken them to Veronica, and was just getting ready to head back for Fiona's room. Lip was off getting drunk and Carl had taken off with Hank.

"So it's fine if I stay away tonight, you think?" he asked, unsure why he wanted approval.

"Yeah, man," Jimmy said. "I understand."

And while Ian helped the nurse move an ugly pink recliner into the room, one that was only a little better than the wooden chair, Lip sat in the Alibi Room, staring into his scotch.

Kev waved from the doorway after getting Veronica's phone call of chaos at home. He cupped his hands over his mouth to gain clout over the men playing pool loudly. "Close up in by two," he called. "And please make sure Elis isn't passed out in the bathroom this time! I can't afford to pay for stolen liquor again!" And with that, he closed the door behind him.

Mickey rolled his eyes as he wiped the juice from his hands. Elis hadn't stolen that liquor, Mickey had. Then had blamed it on the homeless fuck, because why not. He put a stack of sliced lemons in a container and stuffed it into a cooler to the far bottom of the barback. Lip watched Mickey through his glass, aware that he was getting just a tad too drunk.

Mickey crossed his arms and leaned against the back counter. His face relaxed into its usual mask of indifference. "So what's got you crawling back here again?" he asked.

Lip sat his glass down and sighed. Felt his phone vibrating in his breast pocket. He rested his chin in his open palm and looked at Mickey for a minute before saying, "My mom offed herself successfully this time. My life just keeps getting better." When Mickey didn't respond, just kept staring at him, Lip chuckled sort of through his nose and shook his head. "I don't know what's worse," he began, "that none of us even knew she was dead until two days after, or the fact that I, personally, can't bring myself to care."

And Mickey's eyes searched Lip for a minute before he closed them and raised his brows. He wiped at his bottom lip with a cut thumb, still stinging from the lemons. "You're full of shit, Lip," he said. "If you don't care, why aren't you at home with your wife?"

Lip frowned and threw a piece of ice at Mickey's head. "Screw you, Mickey," he bit out.

Mickey's eyes went wide and he sneered. "I'm cutting off. You're pushing it," he growled and grabbed Lip's glass.

And such was the way of the weird sort of friendship the two had accidently fallen into since Mickey's return to Chicago. Since Lip's frequent trips to the Alibi.

Mickey washed out the glass while Lip lit a cigarette.

"Whatever happened to your mom?" Lip suddenly asked.

And Mickey froze mid rinse at the mention of his mother. "Fuck off," he grumbled. "You're too drunk and I'm not drunk enough."

"So down a few," Lip burped. "I need to hear a story worse than mine, so I can feel better."

And Mickey found himself almost smiling at the absurdity of Lip Gallagher. "I'm not having this conversation," he said. He dried off the glass and began putting it away.

The other men to the back of the bar ended their game of pool and set about leaving. A few of the barflies were still hanging about. And Mickey looked over the remaining people, searching for the most recent regular, Elis: the homeless man who had been sleeping in the toilet. When Mickey didn't see the man, he walked away momentarily to search the stalls. Lip meanwhile nibbled on a bowl of peanuts. When Mickey returned, Lip was sleeping against the counter. He tapped Lip on the shoulder sharply and snorted when the guy snored upon waking, blowing peanut shells around. Lip jerked up and blinked a few times before registering Mickey's presence.

"Get outta here," Mickey said.

Nodding, Lip stood up and dusted himself off. It was practically midnight, two hours before closing, but Mickey was bored of this and planned on closing early. Kev wouldn't notice. At least not right away.

"Guess I should see how Debs and Liam are holding up at Kev and Vee's," Lip slurred to himself as he patted his pockets for his keys.

"You plan on going over there now?" Mickey asked, astonished. "Probably not a great idea."

Lip frowned at him and pulled the keys from his back pocket. "Why?"

"Because," Mickey said as he took a seat at the table nearest the bar, "you fucking don't know when to shut the fuck up when you're smashed." He sniffed and leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled and eyes drooping a little from lack of sleep. He yawned, the said, "And not like I give two shits, but if you go over their running your mouth, you might get the hell kicked out of you."

"By who," Lip snorted, "Kevin? He's probably passed out by now."

"No," Mickey said, serious. "Veronica's a fucking twat."

And they stared at one another for a few seconds, quite. Lip's mouth twitched and he gripped his knees before he burst into a fit of laugher.

Mickey wasn't sure what was so funny. So he asked, rudely.

"I don't even know," Lip admitted and wiped his eyes. Smiling crooked, he stifled his further laugher and stared at Mickey. "Guess I should go home," he finally said. He walked out the door a few stumbles later.

Mickey thought maybe he shouldn't have let Lip drive, when he heard the engine revving and squealing tires. But brushed it off fast as he closed up. Once he had thrown everyone out and was upstairs, lounging on his slightly tattered brown sofa, Mickey found himself thinking about Mandy. In fact, he fell asleep thinking about his sister. Ordinarily Mickey wouldn't have given much thought to his dreams because he didn't buy into meanings or any supernatural bullshit, but when he awoke from his dreaming of Mandy dying there in that hospital bed, Mickey couldn't stop himself from worrying. In the dream, Mandy had woken up but wasn't able to breathe. With no one in her closed room and a lazy nurse on duty, his sister had asphyxiated. So to ease his mind, Mickey went downstairs and dipped into the Blue Moon stock. Four beers later and Mickey was still anxious. So he walked back upstairs and smoked a few cigarettes. Watched some television and eventually finished off the breakfast he had purchased around nine o'clock two mornings ago. He figured it was fine so long as he nuked it. After nearly swallowing that whole, mickey sat back on his sofa shaking his leg and flipping through infomercials. At three in the morning, he decided that fuck it, he was just going to set his mind at ease by going to check in on Mandy. One quick glance and he would be satisfied. So he dressed for the cold and darted out.

The El was empty. Mickey sat nearest the door, alone. He relaxed back, propping his cheek on his fist with his elbow rested on a pole. He stared at his reflection in the mirror until his stop was announced.

The hospital was not empty but in fact quite crowded and loud, even from the outside. Mickey entered through the Emergency Room door with ambulance lights flashing behind him. Not bothered to use the correct entrance. He hustle through the busy waiting room where a crowd seemed about to mob the nurse behind the check in station. Waited far too long for his taste as the elevator took its precious time.

Visiting hours were over, the nurse by the station on Mandy's floor called out when Mickey exited the elevator.

"Fuck off," he quipped as he waltzed by. "I ain't staying long."

"That's not the point, sir," the elderly nurse frowned.

But Mickey was already around the corner. Apparently the hag didn't really care because she did not follow him.

Mickey exhaled loudly as he stood in front of Mandy's door, holding the nob with slowly paling knuckles. It occurred to him that this was stupid. Mandy was fine. And really he didn't want to see her again. Looking at his sister in a coma made Mickey wonder if when Mandy finally did wake up she would be different. Maybe even retarded. He had looked up what could happen a while back, and mental retardation had been on the list. Towards the bottom, but it had still been there. Mickey didn't think he could handle that. Also didn't think he needed to look in on her after all. He let go of the knob and turned to walk away, but a sound of rustling from behind the door stopped Mickey in his tracks. Eyes wide, he quickly flung open the door, half expecting to relive his nightmare first hand. "Mandy?" he said and wished, as he stood in the open door looking into a familiar freckled face, that he hadn't.

Ian sat in a recliner to the far side of the room, staring equally wide-eyed at Mickey.

"Gallagher?" Mickey said, frowning. "The fuck are you doing in here?"


	13. Why

Ian shifted in his seat, unsure if he should stand up. He couldn't really tell by Mickey's body language what the other man was running through his head. His legs twitched about on the foot of the recliner as he sat on his hands. And Mickey just stood there, mouth slightly open and brow furrowed as he stared Ian down. Probably he wasn't really looking for an answer, just settling for his confusion and more or less look of discomposure. Ian braved a glance away from Mickey's face, looking at his clenched fists. The letters of his tattoos far more prominent because of the pressure of his knuckles. Quickly Ian looked up, features twisted into fright. "I'll leave," Ian blurted out and jumped up from the recliner. He had no desire to fight in a room with Mandy lying there like that. He didn't know if Mickey would care, but didn't want to stick around to find out.

And Mickey's face contorted almost too fast. He jerked his glance to Mandy and then back at Ian, pushed his tongue against the corner of his mouth, then thumbed his lip. A nervous habit Ian quickly thought he was oddly glad to see Mickey had kept. It put the redhead slightly at ease.

"It's. . .it's fine," Mickey mumbled. "I'm not staying anyway."

"Oh," Ian breathed. He squinted, eyes still on edge. And figured maybe Mickey wasn't going to pounce after all. "Why are you here, then?" he asked and wanted to shove the words back in even as they fell from his mouth. And he cursed under his breath low enough that Mickey couldn't hear. Or maybe he had because Mickey cocked a brow. Ian cleared his throat and looked toward the recliner. He couldn't stand being stared at and was embarrassed to stare back. He didn't know why.

Mickey rubbed his knuckles and followed Ian's line of vision. But unlike Ian, he had no shame and went back to watching the younger man's reaction. Which was a stiff awkwardness.

"How's your face?" Mickey then asked, noticing the faint bruising that was somehow still there.

Ian threw a side peek. He shrugged.

Mickey nodded toward Ian's hand. "Broken?" he asked, seeing the wrappings on a few of the fingers.

"Yeah," Ian said, breathing a little easier.

Mickey swallowed and shifted in place. His eyes darted about as he looked to his feet, and Ian hated that he noticed how long Mickey's lashes were.

"Hope it hurts," Mickey said, but with little intent behind his words. "You sprained my god damned knee."

Ian smirked with a sort breathy chuckle. "Sorry about that," he said.

"Whatever," Mickey shrugged and scratched at his chin then straightened his scarf.

Ian looked from the door to Mickey. "Weren't you leaving?" he asked.

Mickey looked behind him, then at Mandy before he said, albeit unsure of himself it seemed, which was weird, "Yeah, I just had to see if. . ." but trailed off.

Ian gave Mickey a quick once over. It was odd. This whole scenario was awkward. Ian had thought he would probably never see Mickey again. And even after he had ran into him last week, Ian hadn't thought that they would actually end up seeing each other ever again if both could help it, much less be standing around having a conversation. Sort of. Mickey was never great with long sentence, and quite frankly, Ian was too stunned and slightly afraid to speak much himself.

They both seemed to stare at Many in synch and then look back to one another. Mickey was the first to clear the elephant in the room by asking Ian if he slept in Mandy's room often.

Ian furrowed his brow and cocked his head, crossing his arms. His bare feet were cold on the floor. "You haven't been?" he asked, confused. "I thought. . ."

"What?" Mickey said sharply, the softened the, "No."

"Then who?" Ian stopped himself when Mickey looked a little too curious and slightly agitated. "Never mind."

"Someone's been sleeping in here?" Mickey growled out. "Who the fuck?"

"How would I know," Ian said, honest, and took a step back.

Mickey hummed in the back of his throat, his face suddenly neutral and Ian thought he saw a glimpse of sudden enlightenment behind Mickey's eyes. He wondered what Mickey was thinking. Mickey scratched his head then, and let out a heavy sigh before turning back to the door. He opened it, and Ian thought he was just going to leave then, without a word. But instead, Mickey lingered in the doorway, hand still on the nob and his back turned. His voice when he spoke was low and Ian could practically smell the forced indifference.

"What are you doing back here?" Mickey asked. "Thought you were off playing fetch in the marines?"

Ian searched Mickey's back, wishing he could see the other man's face. Because it was always hard to decipher Mickey's words without comparing them to his features and body language. But mickey was not only refusing to look Ian's way, his body was stiff. Ian looked puzzled. Had Mandy spoken with her brother about him? If so, when? Mandy had never mentioned Mickey to Ian once in the last five years. Finally Ian umed and then said, "I could ask you the same." He wanted to ask where exactly Mickey had been since getting out of juvie. The guy had ditched everyone almost immediately after being freed, and as far as Ian had known, Mickey hadn't been seen or heard from since. But apparently not, if Mickey's question had been any sort of giveaway. But Ian didn't want to come across as if he cared.

Mickey was quiet, but let go of the door knob. As he stuffed his hands into his pockets, he said, "My dad shit the bed."

Ian had assumed maybe Mickey had come back from somehow finding out about Mandy's condition. He had not been aware that his past lover had come home beforehand. He blinked. "Sorry," he said, but more than anything sounded unsure of his response.

Mickey snorted and turned back to Ian with a slight smile, the redhead thought. Or maybe he had imagined it. Either way, Mickey rubbed at his face and continued to laugh a little. "I'm not," he said. "Fuck that piece that shit. I hope he's rotting."

Ian was slightly taken aback. The again, when he thought back to the last days Mickey was in South Side, he wondered if maybe Mandy had told Mickey about her father having gotten her pregnant. About the abortion. And Ian knew that if nothing else bothered Mickey Milkovich, and whether he would admit it or not, Mickey hated seeing Mandy cry. And she had done a lot of crying after the abortion. But only when she was high and around Ian specifically. Probably she had cried around Mickey, too. They were the closest of the Milkovich siblings, after all. Mandy had once told Ian, before Mickey's last lock up, that Mickey was her favorite person besides Ian. She hadn't really elaborated. It had been kind of off handed. But still.

"Well, then I guess, good," Ian said. He wanted to ask what had happened to Mandy, since no one really knew. Everyone just knew she was in a coma. The reason was a mystery. But Ian thought Mickey might sour if he asked him, so he withheld. Instead, opting to laugh a little and ask why Mickey had bothered to show up if he hated Terry so much.

"Wanted to see for myself," Mickey responded. "You wouldn't come back for Frank's funeral?"

Ian had to ponder it briefly. "Yes," he said, "but probably for different reasons than you. I hate Frank, but he's no Terry Milkovich." And immediately, he wished he hadn't said that.

Mickey's face tightened up and he bared his teeth a little. "Watch your god damned mouth," he barked. "I'm not going to have a Gallagher talk down about a fucking Milkovich. Screw you."

Ian tried to rebutter, but was not given a chance.

"At least my old man wasn't fucking coward enough to try and mooch off a dying family member," Mickey spat, then promptly spun around and slammed the door.

Ian chased after him, but only so far as the once again open doorway. He yelled after Mickey as the other man rushed into the elevator. Yelled at him asking what the hell Mickey was on about. But Mickey was already gone.


	14. Disarm

"So I figure my actions are completely justifiable! I give those kids everything I have," Frank ranted, waving his arms about and leaving his chest into the bar. "I deserve to get a little in return! I mean, I have had a hard life. That's not to say they haven't! I'm not saying that. But Fiona is well off now with Jimmy, who makes way," he dragged out, "more money than I you or I can conceive of! So, see, she doesn't even need it! She's young and has her whole life ahead of her, God willing. I'm not that young any more. What do I have, another ten years? I say let me live the rest of it out in luxury. For them to stop being selfish, money greedy leaches. Hell, Monica was my wife, anyway! Sure, she was their mother, but I spent more time with that woman than any of those kids! I gave more of a shit about her than any of them! Did you know they were not even aware she had passed?"

Before him, Kevin and Mickey stood, face hardened. Kevin had his arms crossed and looked exhausted, and not just from listening to Frank's rambling. His black shirt was soaking wet from having spilled daiquiri mix all over himself, which Mickey was still wiping at on the counter with a rag. As he dried up the mess, Mickey looked up at Frank, not amused. "Frank," he said dully, rolling his eyes, "I'm really fucking sick of hearing about this bullshit."

Kev agreed when Frank glanced to him for support. Frank frowned. "You know, Mick, you're heartless. My wife has died!" he feigned tears. "I'm distraught!" And then his tone was serious and excusing as he nodded to the young man, saying, "I may not be thinking clearly. Right now, I'm in mourning."

Groaning, Mickey tossed down his wet rag. "I'm done," he said matter-of-fact. "I can't listen to your mouth anymore." And he walked out from the behind the bar.

Kev looked up, eyes wide and mouth agape. "You can't leave in the middle of a shift!" he called.

"Then fire me," Mickey chided over his shoulder, already out the door.

Once outside, Mickey wished he had grabbed his black jacket. It wasn't extremely cold out, but he hadn't been feeling well for the last few days so his body temperature was off. He pulled at the sleeves to his thin, grey thermal, sticking his thumbs through the holes he had worn into place. It helped a little. His sucked on a cigarette as he walked, unsure where exactly he was headed. Just knew that he had to get away from Frank Gallagher before he did something to get himself arrested again. Going in the slammer before he knew what was going on back in Indianapolis was not something he liked entertaining the thought of. Especially not with money on the line.

Finally, Mickey decided on a direction, and headed toward the shoreline. By the time he got there, the sun was finally peeking through and he was warmer. A family of four was playing frisbee near the water. Mickey laughed inwardly when the smallest child fell face first into the mud and began crying. Soon after that, the strange family collected their things and walked off toward a bright blue van. Mickey now felt comfortable enough having more of the shoreline to himself, and walked down, plopping with his knees up just at the water base. A few runners went past him during his sit. The cigarette butts lay between his legs by the time he finally looked away from the water, some thirty minutes later. He didn't have a watch, but knew it had been a while.

"Mickey?" he heard someone pipe behind him. The voice was hesitant.

He craned his neck, a new smoke between his lips and frowned at his company. "The fuck you want now?" he gruffly asked. "Thought I told you to dick off."

Ian put his hands on his hips and gave a sarcastic smirk. Beside of him stood a thin and rather tall blond male, holding a volleyball at his hip. Mickey watched the man's lip raise in disapproval of him. The guy didn't know Mickey, and it pissed him off to be judged so quickly. Even if the guy was probably right. Plus it was irking to see Ian standing there with him, so obviously together. Mickey immediately knew the dislike was mutual and sneered at the blond.

Ian glanced at Tate nervously, which did not go unnoticed by at least Mickey. "You don't own the shoreline, Mickey," Ian said now looking down at Mickey blankly. "And actually, no. Plus you stormed away before I could get a word in edgewise."

Mickey grunted and plucked his cigarette, blowing smoke toward their faces. "Nothing was left to say," he said. "You opened your mouth and shoved your foot in it."

And Ian smirked. Mickey could see that he was trying not to. "And you screamed an accusation without even explaining yourself," Ian argued, hands still on his thin hips.

Mickey thought Ian looked really gay right then. He chuckled and flicked the butt across the sand. He didn't miss the looks of disgust on Tate's face. Staring amused at the blond, Mickey jerked his chin up as he asked Tate directly just who the fuck he was. To put it more adequately, what the fuck his cocksucking name was. He saw Ian stiffen from the corner of his eye. Watched as Tate blanched at Mickey's crude language.

"Excuse me?" Tate blurted, mouth wide open.

Mickey actually laughed at this reaction, genuinely smiling as he looked back at the water briefly. When he turned back, the smile was a faint smirk. "I asked you a question," he said. "Now's when you're supposed to answer."

"Tate," the blond said finally, curt. "And you must be the Mickey I've heard about. Charmed."

And the smile was gone completely now, replaced with crazy eyes and another sneer. Ian gasped and looked at Tate with wide eyes. Mickey glared at the redhead. How fucking dare he discuss whatever it was that had gone on between the two of them years ago with this guy. Because Mickey wasn't fool enough to try and convince himself that Ian had only mentioned their fight recently. No, the tone in Tate's voice gave away what he knew about Mickey. Mickey stood up fast and with a brutal voice, got in Ian's face and asked him just who the hell Ian thought he was. Tate glared, completely satisfied with himself as Mickey stormed away. As he practically ran from the two, Mickey heard Ian's angry voice in the distance. But didn't care to actually decipher the words. Fuck Ian. Mickey didn't even know why he cared. Why he was even bothered. He found himself yelling back at them, though, especially at Ian, to stay the fuck away from him. Away from anywhere he might be.

Down by the water, Ian wasn't sure why he defended Mickey, the man who had once ripped his heart out and left it convulsing. Yet here he was, taking up for his ex against his current lover. Really he wasn't sure what he was even doing, especially when Tate chucked the volleyball at Ian's head and stalked away towards the El entrance. Ian chased after him.

"Tate, I'm sorry!" Ian called as he caught up and stopped Tate in his tracks, whirling him around with a firm hand. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just seeing him again. . ."

Tate crossed his arms and huffed. "No," he said. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to lash out at me and apologize and everything be fine. you especially don't get to take his side. And for what?"

Ian frowned and took a step back. He would never get used to this. In the Gallagher family, this kind of behavior, fighting insanely and then simply apologizing, was acceptable. He wished Tate would stop creating unnecessary rules. To Ian, if someone said they were sorry, then they were fucking sorry. End of discussion. All anger forgotten. It didn't matter what their excuse was, or if they even had one. But not with Tate. Never was that okay with Tate unless he had been in the wrong himself. So thinking this, Ian scowled. He practically hissed when he said, "Then fine. Forget it! I withdraw my apology." And he walked away. Unconsciously in the same direction he had seen Mickey storm off.

Naturally, Tate did not follow. This time Ian did not feel his stomach sink. Yet in his head, he fought a war with himself about the fact that he did not seem to care and what that must mean. But he shut off his thoughts when he reached a crowded area in the city. Ian stood with a hand on his hip in front of a motion sign, displaying some new sports shoes, and rubbed at his face with the broken hand. He didn't want to go back to the hotel, that was for damn sure, and he couldn't just stand around the city wasting daylight. But right now he was too distraught to see Fiona. She would only verbally harass Tate, and Ian didn't think he was in the right state of mind to not jump in on the horrible back talking. So he decided it was best if he sat down for a while. Paying no attention to the mass of people flooding every inch of everything, Ian sat down on a bus bench and put his head between his knees, rubbing at the back of his neck. He sighed heavily before a forced from beside of him shoved him off the bench and onto his ass. Whoever it was, Ian thought fast as he clambered back to his feet, was having a bad day because Ian was in no mood. But when he glared down at the face snarling back, Ian lost his resolve. Fear crept up on him, but only a little. He had been on the receiving end of this not-so-stranger's rage before. He could handle this kind of war. Though wasn't sure why he found himself wanting to.

Mickey stood from the bench and continued his death glare. "I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from me?" he roared. "What are you, fucking deaf? Or maybe you just like getting the snot beat out of you!"

"Hey!" Ian yelled in defense. "I wasn't following you, Mickey! Get your head out of your own ass!"

"Yet here you are," Mickey said between his teeth. "You need to take a fucking walk, Ian."

And Ian decided he'd had enough then, and clocked Mickey across his cheek. Mickey didn't even stumble back, instead jerked his head only slightly as his eyes widened, as if unbelieving that Ian would pick a fight once more. But as a true Milkovich, Mickey gave no thought, it appeared, as he reached out and pulled Ian by the collar of his shirt. The two ended up going over the back of the bench, tripping a woman who cursed at them as Mickey and Ian rolled about on the ground. Most people were ignoring the scene, glancing and walking by fast. Others stood far enough away, watching, some in fascination and others is distress. A man in a stripped business suite began dialing on his phone as Ian finally pinned Mickey, spat blood in his face, and then punched him as many times as he could get in before Mickey kneed Ian in the crotch and rolled him over. He sat on Ian's back, choke-holding the redhead at the same time he twisted Ian's arm back, under Mickey's own pressed down rib-cage. The man who had probably dialed thee police frowned at his phone, most likely from lack of battery life or signal, and walked away.

And it was strange, this fight. Ian thought this as he struggled to free himself like a wild animal. It was different than the fight at the alibi. At least for Ian; he didn't know what Mickey was thinking. But for him, it was finally a release of the hurt and anger he felt towards the other man. Before it had simply been adrenaline with little thought. Now all Ian could do was think as he fought. Think about how awful it had been, his inner turmoil after a younger Mickey had metaphorically broken his heart. Ian knew he had loved Mickey once. Lip once told him that it had been some sort of twisted lust and a fucked up puppy-crush. Maybe even Stockholm Syndrome. And for a while, Ian had convinced himself of that. But after Ian left boot camp a year later, and was still thinking about Mickey when he fucked other men, he knew. And he had spent what seemed forever getting over that. Meeting Tate had helped. But now. Now Ian didn't even know how to express his thoughts, even to himself. He didn't love Mickey now. He really didn't think so. He had gotten over it, moved on. Or maybe once a person loved someone it was permanent, even if they split apart. Because when a person has loved someone, even if it was unrequited, a piece of them was left behind with the other. Ian knew this because no matter how much he tried to tell himself that he hated Mickey Milkovich now, staring up at Mickey's face when he flipped Ian, he felt his heart pinch. And at the same time, felt as if he had found something he had lost before the marines. Before countless flings. Before Tate and their problems.

Mickey's hands gripped his collar to the point of ripping the material slightly. He panted through bared teeth and he stared down at Ian, furious. And Ian stared back, mirroring the expression. And suddenly Mickey let go of Ian's shirt, scowling rather than sneering now, and shoved off of him. Maybe because he spotted Ian's change in expression.

Ian lay on the ground, propped up on his elbows and looking at Mickey's bleeding face. The blood and dirt on the other man's grey shirt. Ian knew that he must look even worse.

Mickey licked his bleeding lip, then used his shirt to wipe the blood. For a second, his stomach was exposed, and Ian tried not to look. Once he was cleaned off only enough, Mickey reached his hand down and shook it. Ian furrowed his brow, but took the offered hand after a second. Mickey pulled Ian to his feet, and the redhead sucked in a sharp breath, grapping his arm.

"Shit," Ian whispered, then moaned. "You broke my arm too. . ." he trailed in a threatening tone.

"Get over it," Mickey barked. "Be glad that's all I broke." He looked over Ian's arm and without warning reached out and pulled it towards himself.

Ian screamed and lurched forward with his arm.

"It's not even broken," Mickey said as he spit blood on the ground and let go. "God damned pussy."

And Ian would have been glaring, rather than staring open mouth in shock, but he was too busy rubbing at his elbow and focusing the throb away. There was already bruising fingerprints on the pale flesh around his forearm.

Mickey looked Ian over and shook his head, smirking. "They let you in the marines whining like that? Figured they had better standards," he said.

And Ian raised up, still holding his arm. He let it go and laughed, grinning now.

And Mickey stared at him for a moment as the crowd began moving around them. After a brief silence, he licked the corner of his mouth and thumbed away the spit, looking to the side for a second, then glancing back. "Let's go get a drink," he demanded. "I could fucking use one. So could your arm."


	15. Almost Vulnerable

_Mickey nursed his beer as he sat with his back against the bartop, slouched. He was looking straight ahead and probably noticed Ian staring at him, but didn't really react. Ian observed, mindlessly tapping his thumb against his empty bottle. He furrowed his brow and finally looked down, opening and closing his mouth a few times, searching. Mickey belched out an insult that registered to Ian as an apology then, and Ian shifted his stunned gaze. "It's fine," Ian said. "I started it."_

_And Mickey raised his brows, shrugging before swigging down the rest of his beer and practically slamming it down behind him without even turning._

_Ian sighed and sat his own bottle down gently. He pulled out a bill from his pocket and laid it down with a few cents. Then looked back at Mickey, rubbing his sore elbow. "I'm sorry about Tate. That wasn't his business," he said, looking at his knees._

" _And wasn't yours to share," Mickey snapped bitterly, then shook his head and waved his hand. "Fucking forget it," he said as if the words were hard to get out, disgusting tasting on his tongue._

" _Well, still," Ian trailed._

_Mickey belched again and stood up, tugging down his filthy shirt. He didn't bother leaving a tip as he began walking toward the exit, Ian still seated a few feet behind him. He said it with some bite, yet low and unsure. He said, "Water under the bridge."_

Ian pondered the events of yesterday as he sat alone in the hospital cafeteria.

His brothers were upstairs with Jimmy and Fiona. They had already eaten. Debbie and Liam were in school. Today was their last day before spring break, and Ian had promised Fiona to pick them up in a couple hours since they were being released early. Had said he would bring Liam back here after escorting Debbie and her friends to the airport. Fiona had insisted that Debbie were to go on her already paid for vacation. Ian knew that he would still be bringing both of the younger Gallaghers back here, though. Debbie had already told him through angry tears that she had no intention of leaving when Fiona might die. Rightly so. Fiona was always playing a martyr.

He fooled with his floppy and bland burger. He thought about Tate, then. His companion had packed his bags last night, when Ian finally arrived after parting ways with Mickey, having been more than a little intoxicated. Tate had not left, though. Had simply warned Ian that he needed to be careful before switching their room to two full beds and sleeping opposite Ian. Ian thought that said a lot about their relationship.

He felt his pocket vibrate and reached inside for his phone. The text he had gotten was from at least one of the persons on his mind today. Tate was informing him that his agent was ready to start production in a little over a week, right at the end of this month. Probably April twenty-third, he wrote. And Ian frowned, slamming the phone down with his palm. He knew this was Tate's way of insinuating it was time to head back to California. And it made Ian's blood boil. He grabbed the phone back up and told Tate that family was more important than Tate's role in a rendition of The Book of Mormon. Ian owed his sister everything. This was the least he could do.

And so continued the now open argument where Tate expressed his annoyance that Ian was planning on staying right up until the day before his next deployment. Where Ian finally told Tate that he had enough. Wasn't sure how long this charade needed to go on.

Not even a minute after the last text, Ian's phone rang. It was Tate. He apologized, said that Ian needed to take that back because he couldn't possibly have meant it, yet still he stood his ground about leaving in a few days.

"Go fuck yourself," Ian spat. "How would you be reacting if it were your sister in that hospital bed? Is your heart so black that you would leave even then?"

"That's not the point," Tate said with a sigh. "And Angela would understand."

Ian chocked. "You're beyond unreasonable," Ian said into the receiver. His voice was low, but because the enclosed cafeteria was eerily empty save for the two workers, Ian's voice carried. "No," he continued after being on the listening end, "and I won't say it again. I'm not leaving with her still in this condition. What the hell is your problem, Tate?" The light above him buzzed as he listened with a deep frown, gripping the table until his fingertips were nearly solid white. "You can go to hell," he spat as the heavy door to the cafeteria opened and someone walked in. Normally Ian would have lowered his now raised voice, but he didn't care who was listening right now. It was no one's business. "If you want to, just go ahead. I refuse to be bullied like this." The cash register dinged in the distance and the cashier asked for money. "If you feel that's what you need to do," Ian hummed in annoyed despair. Footsteps came in his direction, and as Ian hung up and nearly cracked the phone, he looked up. His eyes widened and he jumped a little at the proximity of the person before him.

There stood Mickey, holding a tray of ketchup drowned fries and a bottle of Pepsi.

Ian sat in silence as Mickey stared back. Finally he snapped out of his confused state and asked if Mickey was visiting Mandy, dumbly. Mickey must have also found the question stupid. He scrunched his face for a second. Ian looked him over as Mickey pulled a seat out and made himself comfortable. The shirt Mickey wore was black and had a faded picture of Charles Manson across the front of it. It looked surprisingly clean. However, Ian could not say the same for Mickey's tan cargo pants. Who know what was all over them. Dirt and mystery filth. Ian supposed Mickey would never change in that respect. But at least Mickey wasn't obsessive like someone else Ian knew. Ian also noticed Mickey's beard had finished filling in since the fight almost two weeks ago.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Mickey asked as he took in a huge finger full of messy fries, then licked his fingers partly clean before opening his soda and taking a swig.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked, unable to stop himself.

"I'm eating," Mickey condescended.

And it was only then that Ian caught wind of Mickey's unease. "How's Mandy?" he suddenly asked, panicked. "Is everything okay?"

Mickey looked up and said with his mouth full, "She woke up an hour ago."

Ian heard the nonchalant tone he used, but could see in Mickey's face, even though the other man tried to hide it, he was freaking out. Because of this, Ian assumed Mandy's waking up had negative effects. He asked what was wrong.

"I never said anything was wrong," Mickey said and frowned.

"But it is though," Ian said, "I can tell. What?" His mind racked with possibilities of Mandy's outcome.

And Mickey licked at his teeth and looked down at the table, as if searching its surface for answers. Finally, after a long silence, Mickey sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "They don't know," he said. "She couldn't move when she woke up. They're running tests."

Ian's heart fluttered. He swallowed hard and stared at Mickey with concerned eyes, and finally he asked the question that had been burning the back of his throat since Lip told him that Mandy was in a coma. The question he had been too afraid to ask out of fear of Mickey's reaction to it. "What happened to her, exactly?" he asked.

Mickey furrowed his brow. "You don't know?" he responded as if he thought Ian must have.

Ian shook his head as he said that all he had known was she was in a coma. He had never been told why because no one apparently knew. Except maybe Mickey. "You do know, though, right?" Ian asked as the thought that maybe even Mickey didn't know crossed him.

"She got shot in the back," Mickey said firmly without hesitation. "Driveby at my dad's funeral."

"Holy shit," Ian breathed; eyes wide as he leaned forward some, gripping his knees. He knew from having seen too many of his comrades shot in the spine on the field what that could do to a person. Paralyzed. Mandy was probably paralyzed.

Mickey pushed his tray away, looking sickened by the fries. Then put his elbows on the table and stared out the window in silence. Ian finally straightened up, nauseated. He watched Mickey, watched the way the other man's eyes seemed torn. Before, Ian had wondered why the hell Mickey had tracked him down in the cafeteria and sat with him. It was out of character. Ian guessed that he knew why now. Mickey was looking for some sort of comfort. Mandy was the last person Mickey had, Ian guessed. The two were about as close as two Milkoviches could be. And Mickey was obviously distraught and trying to appear not so. Thus there was no way Mickey was going to just cry on someone's shoulder. And it was weird, seeing Mickey like this. Almost vulnerable.

Almost.

"I can't fucking take care of her," Mickey suddenly said, still looking out of the window. "If she can't walk, I can't stick around to take care of her."

Ian let anger flash across his face. "So you'll just walk out on her?" he growled.

Mickey turned fast and sneered at him. "Don't get pissy, Gallgher. I have my reasons," he rumbled. "She can't come to Indianapolis with me," he continued. "Not in a fucking chair."

Indianapolis. So that was where Mickey had been. Ian tried not to react. He wondered for a moment what Mickey's life was like there.

"Why not?" Ian braved.

Mickey looked about to scream at Ian. Instead he licked his cheek and wiped his lip, eyes bugged.

Ian flinched a little, but demanded an answer.

"Because I'm involved in something," Mickey murmured. "And Mandy can't even walk, much less sprint. I get into shit when I show back up and she's there, she needs to get gone real god damned fast. I can't just push her away briskly." And then he cursed and shook his head. "Mind your own fucking business," he snapped then, appearing to regret his words.

And Ian glared at him, flabbergasted. "So just stay where you are at the Alibi! You can't just leave her. She doesn't have anybody!" he bellowed.

"I won't stay here!" Mickey yelled back.

Ian exhaled and threw up his hands. "Well then you're an even lower person than I had thought," he said.

Mickey's eyes turned to fire and he stood from the table, knocking Ian and his trays to the floor. Ketchup sprayed about. With anger unrivaled, Mickey punched Ian in the chin. Ian was too stunned to react. And as he stood there before stepping away, Mickey told Ian to kill over. He walked away fast, obviously wounded and trying to shield it.

Ian jumped up and caught Mickey's wrist before the felon made it out of the cafeteria. "Mickey, wait," Ian said too fast as he held on tightly.

"Fuck off me!" Mickey barked and jerked away. He glared at Ian and opened the door without turning. He then gave Ian one last glance before walking into the hall.

Ian watched Mickey's back, eyes panicked. "Where are you going?" he called.

"To see Mandy," Mickey spat as he rounded the corner, out of sight.


	16. Remember that Time When

Mickey ground his teeth as he got off the elevator and walked past the nurses' station to Mandy room. The door was open, and he heard a cough from inside that was too deep to be his sister. He thought he knew who it probably was, and for a second thought not to go in. But then did anyway. As he walked in, hands deep in his pockets, Mickey nodded to the other man who sat on the nightstand by Mandy's bed, looking over a packet of paper. And then stared down at his sister, who was not awake, as he had expected. He panicked momentarily to himself, eyes wide, then looked at Lip and threw his hands up slightly in question.

Lip looked away from the papers and down at Mandy, informing Mickey that she had been sedated.

"Why?" Mickey asked and plopped down in the recliner. He slouched back.

"She went kind of crazy," Lip said. "After the test."

"What'd they say?" Mickey asked, looking past Lip to Mandy. He thought he probably already knew the answer. Had known what it was going to be, just as the doctor had even before the test. Mandy was crippled.

Swallowing, Lip sat the papers down beside him and thumbed a spot on his black slacks. His white collared shirt was ripped at the middle, revealing the blue t-shirt beneath. Mickey figured Mandy had been the one to do the damage, if she had lost it after the test as Lip said. "She's paralyzed from the waist down," Lip sighed.

Mickey didn't ask if it was permanent because he already knew. He chewed at his thumb, staring intently at Mandy's legs under the white sheets.

Lip then opened his mouth to speak, but a loud ringing from his pocket stopped him. Mickey thought the song Lip had set as his ringtone was really stupid, but didn't comment. When Lip answered and glanced fast at Mandy, then stood and walked out of the room, standing just in the hall, Mickey knitted his brow. Tried to train his ears to overhear, but failed. He settled for staring at Mandy's broken legs again. Finally Lip walked back in and grabbed up the papers he had been highlighting. He stuffed the phone in his back pocket as he straightened out his shirt and looked awkwardly at Mickey. And Mickey just sat there, staring back quietly for a minute. Lip excused himself, but only made it to the doorway before Mickey broke his stillness.

"You need to figure your shit out," Mickey spat as if his words were acidic.

Lip looked back at him and frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about," he sounded annoyed.

Mickey huffed and crossed his arms, saying, "Like hell. Someone's been sleeping in here, and it ain't been me. What the fuck! Do you think I don't know why your ass gets bombed every night instead of going home to your  _wife_? You think I haven't heard from Kevin about you and my sister?"

Lip shut his mouth and tried to hold a confused look, but only ended up appearing guilty. Finally he sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Look, Mickey," he began but didn't look at the other man, "what I'm doing isn't really any of your business."

"It is when it has do to with Mandy," Mickey said firmly, eyes hard and body bent forward, ready to get up and cross the room.

Lip tensed up. "Fuck you," he growled. "You haven't even been around in nearly six years. Your opinion isn't valid anymore."

"What was that?" Mickey hacked, eyes wide and a sneer creeping across his face.

"You heard me the first time," Lip quipped, standing firmly now.

And Mickey stood and walked over, standing only an inch from Lip. Lip's eye twitched, but he stood straight, looking ready to take a punch. Mickey glowered at him. "I will break you," he growled lowly in Lip's ear. "Don't fuck with me today, Gallagher."

Lip narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring. And quick, almost too quick, he shoved Mickey back. And mickey apparently hadn't been expecting it, as he stumbled slightly, looking all of enraged, stunned, and hint of what may have been respect. But inevitably, Mickey reached out and pulled Lip to him with a fist bunched in Lip's already destroyed top. Lip shot him daggers, breathing erratic. Mickey growled through clenched teeth, but didn't hit the other man. Mostly because they both froze at the sound of Mandy's hushed and sleepy voice. Still in position, both looked over at her.

Mandy's eyes were unfocused and she looked to be in an immense amount of pain as she forced her shoulders up. "Please stop," she breathed, sucking in a breath through her teeth and closing her eyes.

Instant, Mickey let go of Lip's clothes and took a step back, turning to watch his sister.

Lip hurried and stepped over toward the bed, cramming the papers in his pockets. "Mandy, lay back down," he said and frowned. "You just had a lot of morphine. And you aren't supposed to be moving right now."

She sneered up at him, face devoid of any makeup. Mickey thought it was odd seeing Mandy like that. But thought she looked decent. Better that way. Less fake. Really she looked too much like their mother, though. She attempted to shove Lip away as he came to her, but slouched and slipped almost off the side. Lip's eyes widened and he helped Mandy back in place, calling her an idiot.

But when she was lying back in place, Mandy made a chocking sound and put both hands over her face, screaming.

"Shit," Lip cursed. He reached out and cupped her wrist. "Calm down or that nurse is coming back in here. I'll go get her myself."

"Just go away!" Mandy both screamed and growled out at the same time. She then twisted her waist and howled in anguish. Probably trying to move her legs.

Mickey was tensed in place, looking at the display and unsure of how to respond to this. Mandy was sobbing, and even though Mickey fully understood, didn't blame her in the slightest, he had a feeling of dreaming. This was so different. Wrong. Her sobbing stopped, and she was silent as she shook. Lip grabbed both of Mandy's wrist but couldn't pry her hands away from her reddening face. And it was then that Mickey noticed how red his sister's face was growing. Almost purple.

"Mandy!" Mickey barked and moved forward to the other side of her bed, the side with the rails. He grabbed her waist to stop the twisting. "You have to stop! You're not breathing!"

Lip looked at Mickey, terrified. And Mickey forgot why he was mad at Lip, as Lip called for a nurse, frantic.

"Breathe, god damn it!" Mickey spat and slapped his sister's arm. The clap resonated in the room, and Mandy's arm reddened. Still she kept on. Kept on right up until she was sedated once more.

Mickey and Lip stood side by side in the corner as the nurse smoothed Mandy's hair then stepped out of the room. The first to speak was Lip, who offered going out for a smoke. Mickey obliged, glad to leave the room.

They stood in the sunlight, behind the hospital parking garage, having smoked an entire pack of clove cigarettes between the two of them and now working on finishing off a joint. Mickey took his last deep drag and flicked the withered joint to his feet. He held in and then exhaled loudly. His eyes were glazed and he noted that so were Lip's. Lip sat on his haunches across from Mickey, under the clearance sign. Mickey leaned against the column, staring at the car that crept by them. The woman inside rolled down the passenger window and cursed at them to find another place to stand around. Lip flipped her off and Mickey yelled obscenities as she drove away. A few moments passed, the two just being quiet, then Lip pulled out his phone and looked at the time.

"Damn," he sighed. "It's almost five. Amy wanted me home three hours ago."

"Think Mandy's awake again?" Mickey asked, ignoring Lip's last statement and staring at the toes of his scuffed up boots.

Lip looked up at him and worried his bottom lip. "Yeah, probably," he said.

Mickey looked at the entrance to the elevator behind him. He scratched his back.

"You work tonight?" Lip asked, following Mickey's gaze.

Mickey nodded, licking his teeth. They were cruddy and he figured a week was long enough to go between brushing.

Lip shoved up to his feet and dusted off his backside. He looked Mickey over, pondering. "You gonna go back in there?" Lip finally asked, hesitant.

Mickey frowned deeply, still looking at the elevator. "For a minute," he said.

Lip cleared his throat and ruffled his curls. "Well," he said, turning to leave, "see you around, Mickey. Tell Mandy I'll come by tomorrow."

And Mickey took only a step for the elevator before he turned his head in Lip's direction and called out, stopping the eldest Gallagher son. "You hurt her again, after this," he said, "and I won't hold back. Not this time."

And as he walled backwards, watching Mickey for a sign of some kind, Lip nodded. He obviously remembered the events of his last Mickey beating, right after Mickey had gotten out of juvie and right before he had disappeared.

Mickey got into the elevator and headed back inside, knowing that he would probably see Lip before the night at the Alibi Room was over.

However much to his dismay and pleasure, Mickey set eyes on a different drunken Gallagher that night around ten. Before Ian had walked in, already a little off, probably high, Mickey had seen Kevin off for the night and was in the middle of kicking Frank out the back door with Elis as the two fought over some barfly. He dusted off his hands as he stepped back into the room, surveying the area. His eyes came to a rest on the back of a ginger sitting nervously at the bar. Kind of he had wanted to leave then, go upstairs. But because the bar was so busy, he couldn't really get away with that. Already he was walking on thin ice with Kevin over the amount of stolen alcohol and walks. Honestly, Kevin was probably only keeping Mickey on because of Lip. And Mickey both hated and appreciated Lip Gallagher for that. But none of it really mattered, since Mickey was leaving for Indianapolis at the end of May, when Mandy was being released from the hospital. She wouldn't be coming with him. Had said she would be fine taking care of herself.

He stopped thinking when he stepped back in his place behind the bar and met Ian's gaze.

"I thought Kevin was working tonight?" Ian asked, on edge.

"Nope," Mickey said as his attention was drawn to a man paying off his tab. He glared down at the money and then sneered at the burly black man. "What," Mickey started, grabbing at the back of the man's shirt tail, "no tip?"

"Man, fuck you!" the man sang and pulled away to straighten out his shirt, offended. Beside of him, a woman stood. Her weave was bad and her teeth bucked. Her glitter top was nearly hanging from one breast and her breath stank of liquor. She had powder under her nose. She told Mickey to eat her pussy, that the service had been shitty. The two walked away as Mickey burst into dangerous laughter.

A middle aged man in a postman's outfit shook his head. He sat beside Ian, furthest from Mickey. His mustache turned up at the corners and his hair was almost gone, save for a patch on each side of his head. The bags under his eyes made him look sixty, even though the rest of him appeared young. "Your service is pretty poor, Mickey," he chuckled then drank on his beer.

"Hey," Mickey said with light sarcasm, "you can kiss my ass, Norm. I'll spit in your booze." To emphasize, Mickey spat in the sink.

Ian turned, mouth twisted into some confused grin and cocked a brow, watching Norm smack his lips and shake his bottle at Mickey. Mickey walked over and grabbed it, scowling briefly at the older man before giving him another one. Norm took it and popped the cap off with a bare hand. "Nothing you haven't done before," Norm said and took a swig, giving cheers to Mickey after.

Mickey rolled his eyes and pushed away from the counter. "That one's on the house if you get the fuck out of here," Mickey said casually and went about his business unloading the dishwasher. He pulled out the huge blue crate of now clean glasses, and didn't mind the hot water soaking him and dripping across the floor as he put the crate onto of two empty stacked ones under the glass shelves. He began unloading the glasses, not bothering to dry them as Kevin usually did.

"Make it two and you got a deal," Norm retorted.

"Don't push your luck," Mickey said, his lips twisted in his usual indifference.

Ian stifled a laugh as Norm made a face at Mickey's back, but eventually made his way over to the pool table to join two women in a game. He thought it weird that Mickey wasn't being more a dick to the postman. Wondered what that was all about, but didn't ask. Instead he asked Mickey for a beer, told him he might as well start a tab.

"Isn't there another bar you can lush at?" Mickey asked, frowning as he shoved a beer in Ian's hand, not paying attention to which kind, since Ian hadn't been specific.

Ian frowned back and looked down at the bottle of Red Stripe. "I'll drink where I want," he commented.

They didn't talk really after that. Mickey was obviously pissed off and Ian was distraught over something that Mickey wasn't curious about. Not really. Not even a little. It made for an awkward time. Ian stared into his bottle, sloshing the liquid and watching Mickey from the corner of his eye. He probably didn't think Mickey noticed when Ian looked away fast, but Mickey did notice. It made something itch inside of him. He pushed at it, buried it.

Around eleven, the bar had emptied out. Up until now, there had been two fights; one that Mickey had mopped blood up from. A prostitute had sucked off a john in the bathroom and had then been arrested by a detective at the bar when she took her pay out in the open. A group of bikers had plaid a rough round of poker and Mickey had wrangled a gun from the longest bearded one when another fight threatened to escalate. A newly wedded couple had joined the bikers for a game, only to end up broke and furious. Now only Ian and four other people were present, two of which were passed out half naked near the jukebox. Mickey snorted at the sight before looking up at Ian awkwardly.

"Kev know you run the bar like this when he leaves?" Ian slurred, still looking at his bottle. This was his thirteenth one, Mickey counted. He was near cut off.

"He probably does," Mickey said looking around for something to do with his hands, "just doesn't say anything. Not too much, anyway."

Ian hummed and watched Mickey light up a cigarette. He wanted one then, and patted his breast pocket for the pack of Camels he had entered with. The soft pack was empty and Ian turned a curt cheek to it as he tossed it down on the counter. When he looked up, Mickey was holding his pack of cigarettes out to Ian, one cigarette sticking out more than the other four. He shook the pack, impatient.

Ian took it and then patted himself over for his lighter. His eyes were haze and slanted shut and he was wobbling as he searched. Mickey groaned and rolled his eyes. "Here," he griped, quickly snatching the smoke from between Ian's parted lips, startling him. Mickey the stuck the cigarette in his own mouth, beside of his already lit one, and puffed on it as he struck it. He took a drag and handed it back to a surprised Ian.

Ian took a grateful puff, and nearly fell back off the stool as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Mickey laughed at Ian. He shook his head. "Jesus, Gallagher," he laughed, "I haven't seen you this fucked up since. . ." But he stopped himself, finding that he was too comfortable and free with his tongue. His thoughts. His smile warped into a frown again.

Ian was looking at him with wide, expecting eyes.

Mickey looked back at him, mouth pursed. Finally his licked his lip and ran his thumb along the bottom. The awkward silence was thick. "What's eating you anyway?" Mickey asked, looking up through his lashes.

Ian didn't seem capable of coherent thought, though, and mumbled on about suitcases and California. Something about that girly faggat, Tate. And somewhere between anger at his blonde companion and staring at Mickey's crotch openly, Ian popped a can of worms.

"Just shut up," Mickey snapped in a whisper. He didn't want to hear this.

"But you need to hear this," Ian said as firmly as his drunken self was capable.

"Fuck off," Mickey dragged out and stared at him with angry eyes. " _You_  need to forget that shit. It's done. We're done. Have been for a long fucking time."

"Well I can't," Ian heaved. "I hate you, Mickey. I can't forget it."

Hurt flashed across Mickey's face before he put on his mask and crossed his arms. He glared past Ian at the clock. It was midnight and he need to close up. "Well then hate," he said, "should make it easy to forget."

Ian looked at him intently then. "What if I don't want to?" he asked firmly.

And Mickey could only stare back, tonging his cheek and cracking his knuckles. His chest felt heavy and sick. His throat throbbed and his nose burned. He dug his toes hard in his boots.

"Mickey," Ian said with sad eyes and his lips parted. His cheeks were red from the alcohol. His hair a mess. "I really wish—"

Mickey squished his eyes tightly shut and put his hands up, shaking his head and baring his teeth as he had swallowed foul medicine. He stepped out from behind the bar and stalked toward the door. "You need to leave," he said loudly, to everyone left, not just Ian. "We're fucking closed."

The couple near him darted out together, one on the phone and the other trotting behind and holding onto the other's elbow. The passed out two near the juke box didn't move and neither did Ian. For different reasons, naturally. Now unable to decipher the many emotions running through him, Mickey did what he was best at, and reverted to bullying and a hateful tongue. He kicked at the half naked pair, waking them. They yelped and he cursed at them, practically throwing them on their faces out on the road. He stalked back in and glared at Ian. "That included you!" he yelled. "Get your ass out!"

Ian had stood from the stool and was a foot from Mickey's grasp. The look on his face mirrored the last expression Mickey remembered seeing before his second trip to juvie. "No," the words practically shook out of Ian's mouth.

Mickey's eyes flared and he raised his lip. He reached out and swung Ian toward the door. Ian was too drunk to hang on. The redhead fell against the door and bumped his head. Mickey looked down at him, both startled, glad, and yet remorseful. And Ian rubbed at his slightly bleeding head, pulled his hand away, then looked from the faint blood and into Mickey's face. He seemed to make up his rattled mind then, and kicked at Mickey's feet without warning. Mickey fell back on his own ass, yelping. He quickly began to stand, pulling Ian with him. He jerked open the door and held tightly to Ian's collar as he tried to push him out. But Ian was suddenly resilient and held on to both sides of the doorway, gritting his teeth as he stared back at Mickey.

"I said get out!" Mickey growled, now repeatedly slamming his hands into Ian's chest in an attempt.

Ian's breath knocked out of him a little, but he remained in place. He took advantage of Mickey's stress and lurched forward. The stood there, fighting for control of the situation, the door wide open.

"No! Fuck you!" Ian barked in Mickey's ear as they quarreled, bodies closely knit.

Mickey grunted as Ian kneed him in the crotch, then tried to get the redhead in a headlock. Ian flopped them around until he had Mickey against the opened door. Cold air rushed into the building. Mickey twisted in Ian's grasp, but was in too much pain from having been hit in the groin to do much. His breathing was short and fast as he stared into Ian's close face. His breathe tickled Ian's chin.

"You suck," Mickey emphasized.

There was quite in the bar, a moment where only breathing was heard. Both men seemed to calm down, even though Ian's fists were still wound tightly in Mickey's shirt. Ian was about to let go as he trailed his eyes down Mickey's face and sweaty neck. Was about to, but didn't. Probably because Mickey reached up without warning and began pulling Ian's shirt off.


	17. Draft

His hands were hot. His body was both slick and sticky. He grunted more than he moaned, and he absolutely refused to let Ian kiss him anywhere, especially his face. Mickey was exactly like Ian remembered as he bent him over the bar and ran his hands down Mickey's bare back. He even complained just the same about Ian's taking his time. Ian laughed, husky, his eyes lidded. He pressed his forehead against the back of Mickey's neck. Mickey smelled of sweat, pot, and a mixture of alcohol and fruit; the last probably from being in this bar for so long, serving drinks.

"Don't even fucking think about it," Mickey threatened when Ian's mouth came dangerously close to Mickey's hairline. But his voice was airy and had exactly the opposite effect Mickey sought.

Ian just chuckled, pressed a kiss to Mickey's hairline. He then brought his hand up, leaving one to rest on Mickey's hip. He sucked his finger for a minute as Mickey squirmed. His spit dripped down the palm of his hand as he brought it down and slowly pushed his fingertip against Mickey.

Mickey hissed through bared teeth, gripping the countertop. "Fuck," he spat, panting already. And when Ian pushed his finger in a little further, but only barely, and shook his hand quick, Mickey groaned. He slipped his finger in further, pumping. Mickey wetted his lips and pushed them together. His hip quivered against Ian's grasp. Ian cupped his finger and Mickey gasped. This continued briefly, until Ian withdrew his hand, sliding it up Mickey's back. Mickey jerked at the loss. Quickly Ian wet another finger and pushed back inside of Mickey. He worked his fingers for a moment, enjoying the sounds Mickey tried not to make. For the most part, Mickey was an almost silent fuck. An amazing but almost silent fuck. Had always been. Just as with conversation, Ian had always been the one making the most noise. Now was going to be no different, he guessed as Mickey leaned his head down against his hands, biting between his thumb and forefinger when Ian slipped in a third finger. His eyes fluttered shut and his long lashes spread out across pale cheeks. Ian could hardly tare his eyes away from Mickey's closed eyes. For such a tough guy, Mickey had exceptionally soft features.

Ian grew hard and pressed himself against Mickey's ass as he pleasured him. He pulled his fingers away and chuckled against Mickey's neck again when his ex lifted his head and glanced back at him, impatient as always. But Mickey smirked when Ian pulled his upper body back and grinned at him.

Digging his fingers into Mickey's hip, Ian used his busy hand to slick between Mickey's legs and massaged his sack. As expected, Mickey was solid. He kept his lidded eyes on Ian a moment more, until his neck probably ached, then went back to resting his forehead against his fidgeting hands.

Ian looked down, watching Mickey's back twitch. He counted the bumps of Mickey's spine and found himself forgetting about the terrible events of the day. His dick throbbed with need as he jacked Mickey from behind. Mickey made a chocking sound, and Ian both felt and saw Mickey's stomach contacting. Kept pumping even as he felt Mickey's release and the hot cum gliding between his fingers. Mickey then gasped out the word stop and forced Ian's hand away, his entire body hot and twitchy. And for a second brave time, Ian pressed his lips to Mickey's neck.

And Mickey seemed about to shrug him off, but instead surprised Ian by pulling away only to hop atop the bar, smiling, all tongue and cheek, creamy teeth glistening. "Guess I'll have something to think about at work, now," he said, voice low and husky.

And Ian smiled back, eyes still lidded as he stepped close against, resting both hands by Mickey. They stared at one another for a second before Ian grabbed hold of Mickey's thighs and pulled him against his hips, dangling from the bar.

Mickey laughed and bore down on the bar with his forearms, trying not to fall. "All right, Cadet Kelly," he laughed, "don't get a head of yourself."

Ian knitted his brow, lips playfully smirking, amused to see this side of Mickey. He had only bore witness to it on rare occasions. He pressed his chest against Mickey's shoulders and stared down at him intently as Mickey reached down and helped ease Ian into him.

And so they fucked. And it was the same as it had always been: rough and fast. But it was also different, since both were aware of the questions floating between them. Before, there hadn't been much thought beyond when they would have sex again, except probably on Ian's behalf. He had often wondered about where he and Mickey were headed, and quickly had wished he hadn't when Mickey ripped his heart out all those years ago. Ian wondered how Mickey really felt about it, especially now. And thought he had some clue when he felt Mickey tighten his thighs around him and burry his head in Ian's chest. Nothing he hadn't done before, really. But the fact that they had fallen so easily back into this wavelength gave Ian the feeling of knowing. Knowing that he and Mickey liked to fuck, yes, but in some weird way they both loved each other. Admittedly or not. Probably had back when, and obviously still did to some degree. Mickey would likely have killed him, had he heard the thoughts in Ian's head. Instead Mickey was unaware and biting at Ian's peck as Ian spilled his load. Ian collapsed against Mickey's shoulder. They were both drenched.

Mickey shifted against the bar, his ass sore and cold. And pushed Ian off of him as he hopped down and found their pants. He tossed Ian his, looking the redhead over oddly as he dressed. His gaze was a mixture of awkwardness, satisfaction, fear, and uncertainty. He wiped at his lip and began dressing himself.

They ended up in the wrong shirts since both were black, and stripped them off, correcting the error in silence. Finally, Mickey broke the quite by popping his back loudly. He rubbed at the lower half and winced. "Christ, Gallagher," he commented and ended it there.

"Sorry," Ian said, smirking. He was still flushed and noted that so was Mickey. Ian probably more so because of his being drunk still.

"Whatever," Mickey came back, offhanded. He looked around, eyes suddenly wide.

Ian followed his gaze and almost laughed. He hissed a little when he moved and the material of his pants irritated his sensitive crotch. He adjusted himself before awkwardly going to finally close the front door. No wonder it had been so cold the whole time. He guessed they had both forgotten and wondered if anyone had seen. For his sake, he hoped not. Because he remembered what happened the last time someone witnessed him and Mickey Milkovich going at it. Because his stomach ached at the thought of it happening again.


	18. Bonding

Because it had been so late and Ian knew Jimmy was going to be at the hospital all night taking up the only visitors' spot, leaving Debbie, Carl, and Liam alone at home, he opened his phone and dialed the hotel while Mickey went into the bathroom to piss. After he had left the hospital from visiting his sister and Mandy, Ian had gone back to his and Tate's hotel room to try and make up. But Tate was gone when Ian got there, and Ian had settled for a phone argument. Had then canceled the room, figured he would remain at Jimmy's until he left for California. Then he had ended up here, with Mickey, who probably wouldn't let him stay. And because of the hour, he figured a hotel was better than waking his stressed younger siblings to let him in the door. He was speaking with the receptionist when Mickey walked out of the restroom and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, listening. Ian was too busy being floored by the nerve of the hotel to notice the way Mickey fidgeted.

"What do you mean everything is booked?" Ian frowned. "I just left there a couple of hours ago. Surely my previous room is still empty."

Mickey snorted, half-hearted, his eyes drifting over Ian's entirety. An odd expression on his face.

Ian hung up, exasperated. He shook his head to himself and looked disapprovingly at the floor, hands on his hips.

Mickey shifted his feet and watched Ian ponder. "Bike week," he said calmly. Finally Ian appeared to remember the yearly event and sighed. "But you can't crash here," Mickey said too quickly and slightly harsh.

Ian looked up then, brows knitted and frown deep. "I wasn't going to ask," he said, both hurt and offended. Some part of him had been holding out hope for Mickey's hospitality.

Mickey swallowed and looked away. "Look, Ian," he began, tone familiar to the part of Ian's memory that wanted to fade away. "Earlier—"

Ian gaped at Mickey. "Are you fucking serious?" he blurted, cutting Mickey off. "Really? You're doing this?"

Mickey thumbed his lip, looking anywhere but Ian's face.

Ian closed his eyes and laughed bitterly. He told Mickey how shitty he was being, how Ian wished he had just left before when asked, then stormed out. So that was how Ian ended up sleeping on a bench outside of the Alibi. Having instantly regretted not sticking around to see Mickey's reaction. Having suffered the worst chest ache and sick stomach he'd had in quite some time. But too drunk to feel the cold as he lay there, shivering. Too stubborn to go bang on the door. Even though he could see the lights were on inside and Mickey was pacing in the upstairs, his shadow appearing huge against the shaded window. Too prideful, also, to throw a fit from the streets, throwing rocks at the balcony like he secretly wanted to. He thought he saw Frank sleeping in a pile of trash across the road, just before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

The next morning, Ian awoke extremely early and moaned, shielding his eyes from the sun. His head was splitting and his throat was sore. His stomach bubbled as he sat up and rubbed his temples. He reached in his pocket for his phone and saw that it was just barely seven o'clock in the morning. Ian twisted, sniffing because his nose was now runny, and watched the Alibi's front door. Looked up at the balcony for signs of life. Mickey was probably passed out on his stomach somewhere. The only thing Mickey was great at committing to was sleeping like a rock and destroying everything he touched.

Ian sighed, growing wary of his bitter thoughts, and speed dialed his older brother, who Ian knew would be awake. Lip answered, voice groggy. A sizzling muffled his voice, and the phone sounded as though it were being juggled. Apologizing, Lip explained that he was trying to hurry his step-daughter, Sely, and her friends to school. Already she was going to be late because of curling everyone's hair. He was making breakfast.

"Where are you?" Lip asked when the El rumbled by on Ian's end.

Ian looked behind him at the Alibi Room again, mouth open and uming. "Never mind that," he said, turning away quickly. "Are you heading to see Fiona before work?"

"I'm skipping work today," Lip said. "Going to stay with Jimmy while they run an EKG and CAT scan this morning. You?"

Ian said he was headed that way now.

"Why don't you swing by and have breakfast with us, then?" Lip offered, then screamed away from the phone for Sely to hurry up. At the same time he heard Lip bellowing, Ian overheard Lip's wife, voice distant and barely audible, fussing at Lip for something.

Ian figured he was starving, so he would take his brother up on the offer. After all, Lip's townhome was a block before reaching the hospital.

"I mean," Lip began, obviously leaving the loud room he had been in, "unless you and Tate are busy."

Swallowing, Ian felt a twitch in his gut. He frowned and fiddled with the hem of his jeans as he sat with one leg thrown over his thigh. "He left," he said dryly. The was a long pause on the other end, and Ian knitted his brow, ripping a piece of the dangling cloth from his pants. He wasn't sure if he should speak to clear the air.

"Wow," Lip said, tart. But his voice softened as he empathized for his brother. "So are you two, like, finished this time?" he asked, cautious.

"Yeah," Ian said, biting down on the inside of his cheek. "I'd say."

An little over twenty minutes later, Ian was standing on Lip's doorstep, hoping he hadn't held them up too much. He rolled his shoulders, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, not having a coat since yesterday morning. Shivering, he quickly reached out and rang the doorbell. Then stuffed his hands into the warm of his pants once more. He stood there for only a moment before a very slender, very tan Hispanic woman opened the door. She wore a white robe over stripped pajamas, and her face was somewhat pasty and tired. Ian remembered Amy looking a lot different for some reason. Probably because the last time they had seen one another had been last Independence Day, and she had weighed more. She had also been wearing makeup.

"Come on in," she said with very little accent. "It's freezing," she commented as he walked by.

Ian stood in her doorway and clearly contemplating if he was supposed to take his shoes off. She had been adamant about it the last time. Of course, he and Lip had been covered in mud.

"Where's your jacket?" Amy asked scrutinizing.

Ian shrugged, saying he had lost it at Jimmy's. He was determined to not let on what had gone on between him and Mickey. Not that Amy would suspect, Ian knew, but Lip was a different story. He knew Ian and Mickey's history. After all, the two had quite the track record of convenient fucks and heartbreak. He supposed time didn't change people and their bad habits and weaknesses entirely.

At the table, Ian was cramped between three teenaged girls, all fussing over calorie intake when Lip forced mini-muffins on them. The redhead smirked and went about eating his large platter of bacon, biscuits, and gravy. A little too salty, but his brother was never an amazing chef. And he had found out the hard way that Amy was no better. Was actually quite worse. He bit into a biscuit and discovered that the bottom was horribly burned, but inhaled it regardless. Eating made his hangover ease up, if only a little. The girls finished their food and fled fast for school. Amy yawned and sauntered off upstairs, after giving Lip a quick kiss on his cheek. And for about ten minutes, Ian enjoyed the conversation he and his brother engaged in. That was, until the subject went back to exs and their hold on one's life.

"You'll find someone else, Ian," Lip said, clearing the table. "Someone better for you."

Ian laughed in self-mockery. He helped his brother by wrapping the leftovers when they moved into the kitchen. "Yeah," he said, voice bitter, "because I have such great taste in men."

Lip smiled and stared at his brother with large, playful eyes. "Well you could always go straight," he joked.

This time Ian laughed earnestly, smiling as he said, "Except I probably would have even worst taste in women!"

Lip laughed too, rolling up his sleeves and stuffing the dirty dishes into the soapy water he had run while talking. He turned to face his brother fully, leaning on the sink with one arm, hip out. "Hey," he chided, "couldn't be any worse than me."

Ian snorted. He knew Lip's track record just as well as Lip knew his. Even now Lip was in an unhappy marriage and cheating on his wife who was consequently cheating on him and didn't think Lip knew. Ian hadn't yet been told who Lip's mistress was.

Lip waved his free hand about and shrugged. "I think all Gallagher men have bad taste in partners," he said, only partly serious. He dried off his arms and patted Ian on the back, saying, "It's like a requirement or something."

Later, he and Lip continued their brotherly bonding over a twenty four pack of beer and movie rentals. Ian had until July to stay in South Side and April was nearly over. He dreaded leaving for many reasons. He didn't particularly want to go back into the field. Also didn't want to return after four months of so-called peace making in Kuwait to an empty apartment with double sinks and too many memories. Plus he missed his family terribly. So he tried not to think about that as the next weeks flew by. It was seventeenth of April now; he was subconsciously keeping count. He hadn't spoken to Mickey yet, and avoided him as best possible. That was difficult, since Mickey had taken to spending most of his free time with Mandy at the hospital. So Ian only visited Mandy every morning before Fiona because it was super early and he knew Mickey wouldn't be there yet. Except that on the twenty-fourth of that month, Ian made the mistake of going out for a smoke while Fiona slept. Something she did a lot of these days. Her condition was much worse.

Ian walked through the hospital exit and turned for the designated smoking area, not looking up as he lit a cigarette with a match. When he finally did look up, he spotted Lip's back. He guessed his brother left work early. Ian was glad because he needed to tell Lip what the doctor had said about Fiona's heart rate. Lip was speaking to someone, and for one reason or another, Ian didn't think on it as he walked over. Probably because he was too keyed up from the bad news and hardly even noticed before it was too late.

He stepped up to his brother, only looking at Lip at first, then widened his eyes at the other man standing with Lip, smoking the last of a clove cigarette.

When Mickey first stared back at Ian, his face didn't move, only looked on in indifference. Finally he threw his clove down and looked at Lip. "I gotta go," he said and walked away fast without another word.

Lip frowned and watched Mickey slam through the entrance. He gave his attention back to Ian and looked the redhead over quickly. Clearly noticed Ian's sudden foul mood. "What the fuck was that about?" he asked, amused, brow cocked and face smoothed over.

Ian sucked in a breath, trying to not give himself away, but obviously failed because he couldn't look Lip in the eyes and was kicking rocks with his toes idly.

In a flash, Lip's jaw dropped and he stared Ian down. "No," he dragged out, exasperated. "Really?" he batted; shaking his palms out to his brother in unbelief, and then ran his hands threw his hair in aggravation when Ian's freckled face told all. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ian!" Lip snapped and threw down his cigarette and shook his head.

"It's not really your business," Ian quipped, crossing his arms in defiance.

Lip huffed a laugh and shoved his hands into his short's pockets. "You're right," he truced. He smoothed his features once more and cocked his head. "So?" he asked expectantly.

"So what?"

"So what are you going to do about it?" Lip said, grinning acerbically.

"Nothing," Ian said lowly, hateful and also upset. "He's still an asshole."

"No shit," Lip said, as if that should have been obvious.


	19. Seize

Mandy sat up in bed, slurping down orange juice and munching idly on her jellied toast. Ian watched her sloppily lick her fingers from his place in the ugly pink recliner. The television was on but muted. A rerun of Whose Line played across the screen. Ian thought the show was kind of boring and only a little funny, but Mandy seemed to like it, so he kept watching Drew Carry laugh, since he had lost the remote and couldn't, for the moment, hear it.

"You want some?" Mandy asked, grabbing Ian's attention. She spoke through a full mouth, crumbs falling to her lap on the white sheets.

Ian smirked and shook his head. "Classy, by the way," he teased.

Mandy looked proud of herself and stuck her tongue out, then scarfed down the last of her breakfast. She pushed away the rolling tray and wiggled back down comfortably. Ian saw Mandy look longingly at her legs for a second. She must have noticed because Mandy quickly looked at the television. She twirled a piece of her blanket between her thumbs as she watched quietly. Ian stood up and dug through the recliner for the remote, finally gave up and just walked over to turn up the volume. He stood in front of the set for a minute, contemplating changing the channel, and also knowing that his back was blocking Mandy's view. He stood superman stance and grinned devilishly to himself.

Mandy groaned. Ian heard her fighting to move around a little on the bed, and turned just as she chucked one of her many pillows at his head, not so hatefully saying, "Move, dickhead!"

Ian fell into a fit of laugher as he caught the pillow and threw it back at her. The credits on the television rolled. The show was finally over.

"If I could get up," she began, "I'd so kick your ass. You made me miss the last part!"

And even though she sounded fine, playful even, Ian detected the resentment and depression on Mandy's tongue. The desperation. Hating that, he decided that cheering her up was the best idea for such a day. He quickly moved over to the bed and climbed in, surprising his friend only a little. Once comfortable, or as much so as was possible in her only slightly larger than a twin bed, Ian covered up and grinned as Mandy sighed contentedly and rested her head on his shoulder. But his comfort wore off momentarily when he felt something stabbing his back. He disturbed Mandy's relaxation long enough to feel around behind him. He pulled the remote from under her pillows and raised his brows at her. "You had it the whole time?" he asked rhetorically.

Mandy shrugged, smiled, and hugged back to Ian's waist as he relaxed again.

"Bitch," he whispered jokingly. The remark earned him a pinch in the side. To which he laughed and turned up the television. Unfortunately another episode of Whose Line was on again. So they watched it, this time with sound. And Ian would have been content to stay that way for quite some time, had he not looked at the time displayed on the corner of the television screen. He groaned, "Mandy I've gotta go."

She looked up at him then and pursed her lips. "Seriously, Ian?" she said.

"Seriously, Mandy," he chided and wiggled free of her grasp, climbing to his feet.

She crossed her arms, glaring at him as he put his shoes on standing up. She then closed her eyes and shook her head, tilting it back. "You know," she said calmly now, "at some point you're just going to have to face him."

Ian froze mid-lacing and looked up at her innocently, slightly annoyed. "What are you talking about, Mandy?" he lied. He put his foot down, stamping on his shoe.

She punched the bed. "Oh come on!" she barked. "What do you think? It's obvious you're avoiding my brother!"

To be honest with himself, Ian had never thought Mandy ever caught on to his and Mickey's flings. And it had been so many years since, why would she catch on now, after a one-night-stand no one was supposed to know about.

"I really don't—" Ian began but was cut off.

"He's a prick, Ian, and you might hate him for a most likely understandable reason, but he's my blood," Mandy said. "The only family I have that seems to care some."

Ian watched her, his eyes studying the way she twirled a finger in her hair nervously, creating a knot. His stomach twisted and he felt a gnawing in his feet, telling him to leave now because it was already noon. Mickey would be walking in any second.

"So please just put up with him!" she growled, now staring him down.

Ian swayed his head and exhaled loudly. "I have to see Fiona anyway," he excused. "Her heart isn't doing so great."

Mandy stared at him a moment more, her face softening. She closed her mouth and stopped twirling her hair, practically jerking her finger loose. A few strands of hair clung to her finger, follicle and all.

"But I'll be back tomorrow," he said and turned to leave.

Mandy called out to stop him, her features dawning in realization. "They said I'm switching rooms sometime today," she informed Ian.

And Ian turned back to her, smiling a little. Mandy was no long in need of this wing in the hospital. He was glad for her. Her new room would probably be more comfortable. "Where should I come, then?" he asked.

She tapped her lip and looked up for a second. "Room two oh three," she said, snapping her fingers.

Ian's heart skipped a beat and he tried not to let Mandy see him frown. His heart beat wildly in his chest. He hoped his voice didn't shake as he told Mandy that was great and he would see her later. And he would see her much sooner than Mandy was aware because the room she was being switched to was across the hall from Fiona.

Over the course of the next two days leading into the final hours of April, Lip left for Springfield, saying he had to straighten out a bad business deal and would be back as soon as humanly possible. Told Jimmy to keep him posted. Ian dealt with hearing Mickey's voice close by on a regular basis. They were talking again only when they bumped into one another in the hall, but the words were clipped, sometimes civil, and in passing. Ian crept out of Fiona's room, waving goodbye to Jimmy one night, after having left way past visiting hours, and found himself lingering by Mandy's door, listening in on the voices inside. At first he assumed it was Lip, but knew better, since Lip wasn't to return until tomorrow. He stepped close to the crack in the door, against the wall where he could not be seen, and hoped a nurse didn't notice him. Honestly it was a little creepy, his standing there, but he couldn't stop himself. Because the voice inside was Mickey's and Ian didn't think he could ever remember an instance were Mickey Milkovich sounded so caring. Ian tried not to breathe too loudly because if he had, he wouldn't have been able to overhear.

"You'll be fine, Mandy," Mickey was saying. "You're tough."

And Mandy was sniffling.

"Mickey, I just don't think I can keep doing this."

"Well you're gonna have to," Mickey said. "Unless you want to off yourself. Which I hope you don't."

And Mandy laughed softly. "You're an ass, Mick," she said.

Mickey huffed. "An ass that is letting you smoke my last cigarette. You oughtta be more appreciative," he quipped. "Think that nurse will catch on?"

Mandy laughed a little louder. "Just crack the window more!" she insisted. There was a long pause and Ian heard Mandy blow smoke. "God," she sighed. "I needed this so bad."

Mickey laughed some. More silence. Ian almost walked away, but Mickey's voice stopped him once more.

"Lip been by?" Mickey asked.

Mandy was quite. "Why are you asking about Lip?" she suddenly sounded venomous.

"Come off it," Mickey groaned.

More silence.

"He told you?" Mandy sounded shocked.

Mickey coughed. "Didn't have to," he said. "It's pretty fucking obvious. Not like you're hiding it well or anything."

More silence.

"I don't want to kill him, Mandy," Mickey then said, sounding more like himself, "but if shit gets out of hand again."

Mandy sighed loudly. She shifted in bed and the bars squeaked. "Lip's harmless, Mickey," she trailed and Ian thought he could practically hear the love behind those words. Thought Mickey probably did too because Mickey dropped it.

Ian's eyes bugged a little. Mandy was Lip's mistress. How had he missed that? No wonder Mandy had been able to finish classes at the salon academy just shortly after she had expressed to him in a letter than she couldn't keep affording it. And after all, Lip had even invited Mandy to the Independence Day cookout last year. But Amy had been there, so Ian hadn't suspected. He guessed neither had Amy. Really, it was very ballsy of Lip. Despicable, but ballsy. He left the hall, then, and sneaked into Jimmy's house shortly after, using the key they had made after Ian had spent a night on the streets.

The next day, Fiona had a seizure. Debbie and Liam were in school when it happened, and Ian hadn't been there either because he hadn't set his alarm. Had intended on foregoing his visit with Mandy, since he now had the knowledge that Mickey had slept in her room and was probably still in there sleeping. So Ian had slept in. Big mistake.

He arrived at the hospital in panic from Jimmy's urgent call. He got there coincidentally just as Lip did. Lip was still wearing his business suit and was running toward the entrance when he spotted Ian, decked in pajamas, coming his way. Lip chastised Ian for not being there before, out of misplaced anger, as they caught the elevator together. And they almost got into a fight when the elevator was in motion, but stopped, gripping each other's' throats when it dinged and the doors opened. A doctor and three nurses, two civilians behind them, stared in open aghast at the two Gallagher boys. Lip straightened up his tie as Ian let go of him. "Excuse us," they said in union, marching past the small mob.

They rushed into Fiona's room, where Jimmy sat holding her hand. She was half asleep, probably from the medication the nurse was injecting into her vein. Ian and Mickey moved aside as the nurse left. Ian went straight to Fiona's other bedside as Lip motioned Jimmy over to talk in the hall.

"You okay, Fi?" Ian asked, concern marring his face.

She nodded weakly, her hair drenched in sweat and her face nearly white. Her lips were so cracked he saw blood caked between the flakes. Her eyes were black beneath them.

After seeing Fiona was okay, Lip left to change out of the suit he was wearing. Jimmy asked Lip to pick up Liam and Debbie up early from school and see if they could locate Carl. Lip said he would get them some food while they were out. Asked Ian if he wanted to come along. Standing by the window with his arms crossed, Ian had taken in a loud, shaky breath, saying he wasn't really hungry. And after Jimmy fell asleep in the chair by Fiona, Ian found out that actually, he was growing hungry. So he quietly left the room and tip toed into the hallway backwards, closing the door behind him. He turned around fast when it clicked closed, and prepared to hit up a McDonalds, when he quite literally crashed into Mickey as the other man left Mandy's room.

"Hey," Mickey said awkward and curt, giving Ian a quick once over.

Ian stared back at Mickey and scratched at his wrist. This would normally have been where either Ian or Mickey ended it, and Mickey looked about to walk away. In fact, he turned away and took a step, but Ian's hand darted out like it had a mind of its own, and grasped Mickey's bicep. Mickey turned back, scowling but confused all the same. He parted his lips a little and knitted his brow in question. Ian quickly let go of Mickey's arm.

"You hungry?" Ian offered up.

Mickey blanched. His body tensed and he took a step back. "I thought we'd been through this," he said, even though he knew damn well they hadn't.

Ian groaned under his breath and shook his head. He wetted his lips and shrugged. "Look, Mick," he said, "I get it, okay? You don't want anything to do with me."

Mickey just stared at him, one side of his mouth raised and nostrils flared.

"And whatever," Ian went on, growing bold. "I guess I should be fine with that, seeing as we haven't had anything to do with each other in years. So you win."

Mickey smoothed out his featured and continued to listen, even though his feet turned, geared toward the staircase.

"I'm okay with it. I've made peace," Ian sighed didn't know what to do with his hands. "But we should at least be civil, for Mandy's sake." He extended his hand despite himself. "Friends?"

Mickey frowned again. "I don't have friends, Gallagher. You know that," he said, but the bite in his words was weak.

Ian smirked. "Right," he said, "you only have associates." With his hand still extended, he raised his brows and smiled. "Associates, then? At least until one of us leaves?"

Mickey stared at Ian's hand. Looked about to rip it off. But surprised even himself, probably, when he shook it fast and sloppy.


	20. Here's to Us

Ian laughed so hard that his soda spewed from his nose. Carl glared at him, said he didn't see what was so fucking funny about the ink across his bald head. Lip's mouth spread thin as he fought back his own laugher, sitting on the windowsill in the cafeteria at the usual table. The other two Gallagher boys sat facing one another, only this time the seat between them was occupied.

"God, stop laughing!" Carl snapped and pulled his hood over his head.

Ian wiped his face with the collar of his shirt, ridding himself of the drink. He sat the bottle down and shook his head, grinning. "You don't?" he teased.

"Who the fuck even did that?" Mickey's voice rang in, annoyed and serious in the midst of hilarity. He hadn't spoken at all really since running into the Gallagher clan while getting a snack for Mandy. When Ian invited him over to sit with them, Mickey had at first declined. He and Ian hadn't been on speaking terms but for barely a week. Sure, they had been having breakfast together, but that was coincidental. And Ian had taken to joining Lip at the Alibi when Frank dicked off. Once when Mickey wasn't working, and he had joined them. But only because he had been having a rough day worrying over the phone call he had made to Brenda back in Indianapolis. Honestly it bothered Mickey that he and Ian had been basically shooting the breeze. Mickey Milkovich didn't do shit like that. Didn't talk nostalgia. Didn't have friends or some crazy shit like that.

Lip cackled then and excused himself, breaking Mickey's train of thought.

Ian wiped his eyes and leaned back in his chair, looking over at Mickey, still grinning. The redhead's stomach jumped from holding down his laugher. Mickey's chest fluttered and his stomach felt heavy, so he looked away from Ian and kept his attention on Carl, who he had only just met. He twirled the two honeybuns in his hand, almost squishing one.

Carl continued to fume, glaring back at Mickey. "Hey, suck my dick, motherfucker," he said, unafraid, "like yours are any better!" And he nodded to Mickey's knuckles.

Ian's eyes widened briefly, the smile dripping from his face as he looked hard at Mickey.

Mickey looked down briefly, sneering a little. "At least mine make sense," he said casually. "What the hell is that even?"

Carl huffed and scooted his chair away from the table as Ian calmed down and laughed harder. It screeched and Carl jumped up, stomping off and slamming the cafeteria door behind him. When he was finally gone, Ian quieted and looked down at the food in Mickey's hand. He asked how Mandy was. Mickey stared at his food, too. Ian hadn't been by today, and Mickey only knew because Mandy had bitched about it. Although she had shut up real fast when Lip stopped in, just before going to the cafeteria a short while before Mickey.

"That kid," Mickey said, clearing his throat, "is a sociopath."

Ian snorted. "He's just different," he said, waving a hand.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Nah," he corrected, "he reminds me of Stan."

"You're half-brother?" Ian questioned, looking over Mickey's face. His stare made Mickey feel uncomfortable in an odd way. "Isn't he dead now?"

Mickey thumbed his lip and nodded. He sighed and looked at Ian for a second, remembering, unfortunately, when he, Iggy, and his late brother had attempted to kill Frank. "Mandy's waiting for these," he said and tossed the honeybuns between his hands. he didn't want to give Ian a chance at staring up some bullshit conversation again. Ian nodded and watched every move Mickey made as he stood up, which kind of got under Mickey's skin, but he squashed it, frowning. "See ya," Mickey said and began leaving.

Ian pivoted in his chair and stopped Mickey just a few feet away with only a single syllable. "You think you might want to help Kevin with something later?" Ian asked, unsure of himself.

Just glad that Ian hadn't started shit again, Mickey relaxed and turned back around. Kevin had mentioned yesterday that someone owed him a hefty sum and wasn't paying up. The mention had been in passing, and Mickey hadn't put much thought into it. He wondered if Ian's suggestion had something to do with that. After all, it was no secret that the Mikloviches liked breaking kneecaps. It was one reason Mickey had gotten on so easily with the small organization he was working for in Indianapolis. He was hired muscle and lucky for him, a drop and pickup guy lately. Which had worked out much in his favor. He asked Ian what he was on about.

"Some guy owes Kevin money and Veronica thought she could handle it," Ian began. He stood and walked over to Mickey. They began leaving the cafeteria together. "Now she's basically being held hostage." He kept his voice low.

Mickey smiled a little evily, stunned, honestly. "Shit," he breathed. "I knew she was fucking crazy."

Ian looked at him as they walked and a grin crept across his face. "Well, she's probably not in a lot of trouble," Ian said. "But Kevin's freaking out."

"Who's the guy?" Mickey asked as they entered the elevator. Kind of itching for a fight, now that Ian mentioned it.

And Ian faltered a little, then. Mickey watched him fumble for his words. Had to pry his eyes away from Ian's mouth as he worried his lip, biting at the dead skin. He found it easy to do when Ian puffed out his cheeks and blew out a harsh sigh. His wind blew against Mickey's face, so he hit Ian in the shoulder blade with the heel of his hand, scowling. It stopped Ian, startling him.

Collecting himself, Ian walked through the open elevator. They crossed around the nurses' station as Ian said, "Eddie Silvestro."

He wasn't surprised. Maybe Ian thought he and Eddie were friend or some shit, by the look of uncertainty on his freckled face. They weren't. The Silvestros had always been greedy weasels. All they had ever been to Mickey was a means of poison. They sold, or at least used to sell, some of the best weed in South Side. But Mandy had mentioned to him once, a year or so ago, that the two brothers had had a falling out. Now oneof them was not doing so well and the other was getting in deep with loan sharks. So naturally it came to Mickey as no shock that Eddie had dealt business with Kevin and soured it. He looked over at Ian as they walked side-by-side down the hall to their sisters' rooms.

"I can't really do anything," Ian said, unashamed. "I have too much riding on my reputation."

"Lip?" Mickey asked, unsure why Kevin hadn't just asked for the older Gallagher's help. For that matter, why Kevin hadn't just came out and asked for Mickey's help, yesterday. They hadn't been getting along terribly, after all. They had only fought once since Mickey's moving in upstairs, shockingly enough.

"He and Amy are trying to work out some stuff," Ian said as the two stepped in front of the two doors.

They turned to face one another and Mickey scratched his beard. Ian blinked at him, waiting for a response.

"Well it ain't my problem," Mickey finally said, causing Ian to sigh and look disappointed. And it wasn't. Mickey really didn't care what the hell happened to Veronica. He hardly knew here. "But I'll talk to Kevin, anyway. I'm bored as fuck. So it could be fun."

And so they turned their backs to one another and entered opposite rooms.

After he left Mandy, Mickey walked out into the sunlight and made his way over to the payphone at the end of campus. Really, the thing was falling apart. He scrutinized it for a minute, eyeing the smear of red across where the pain had been chipped away. Brown red. Probably blood. He was back in the fucking down side of Chicago, after all. What else should he expect? Shaking himself, he reached out and grabbed the receiver, stepping into the plexiglass frame. He shouldered the received and dropped in some change, looking around for sight of someone, then dialed collect and held the phone properly. A woman's voice answered, sounding slurred and airy.

"Brenda?" Mickey asked, pursing his lips and rubbing his temples.

"Mickey!" she dragged out. "Oh I forgot to tell you yesterday that I broke your system in the Jeep! Oh god, please, Mickey, don't be mad at me!" she gushed all at once.

Mickey rolled his eyes and groaned. Her voice gave him a headache. "It's fine," he said, "I don't care about that."

"Great!" she dragged lowly, content. High as ass.

"Brenda, have you seen anyone snooping around my storage?" he asked bluntly, getting to the point.

"When are you coming home?" she asked innocently, ignoring Mickey's question because she was fucking annoying like that.

"Fucking never, if you don't answer me," Mickey growled hatefully.

The line was quite, then Brenda told Mickey that no, she hadn't seen anyone. But she was lying to him of course. Not out of betrayal, Mickey knew, but simply because she hadn't probably even been by the storage unit. Had probably been lying around the apartment with a needle hanging from her tracked up arm the entire time he had been away. Besides, Brenda was too fucking dumb to backstab anyone properly. He got off the phone shortly after, not feeling better in the slightest.

He stood in front of the hospital, smoking on a fresh pack of cigarettes and staring up at Mandy's window. He needed to leave soon. He didn't like the way things were starting to smell back home. Didn't like thinking about why the hell his sister had probably been shot at in the first place. Didn't want to think about it maybe happening again. It was best if he left fast and smoothed, or at least tried to, things over with his people back home. But as he watched the window to his sister's cage, Mickey knew he would at least stick around long enough to see that Mandy was released and able to care for herself. The doctors had already given them the hint that Mandy would be out by the end of this month. So he only had to hang around a little longer. And if he was going to do that, Mickey figured he might as well have some fun his last while here.

It took Mickey the entire walk to Kevin and Veronica's home to remember that Kevin was usually out at the park on Wednesdays. So he had hailed a cab because it was easier than walking a long distance to the El entrance. Fuck's sake, he had been walking forever already. And when the cabby pulled over in front of the park, Mickey immediately spotted Kevin's ice-cream truck. The cabby cleared his throat. He was about forty and had a leg up on Mickey so far as size and muscle. But he had a baby face, and Mickey had no doubt he could take him. So when the guy asked for the fare, Mickey sucker punched him and hopped out of the cab as the guy clocked out, head blaring the horn in a constant stream. Mickey walked away rubbing his knuckles.

He sauntered up to the ice-cream truck and waited in a line of children, snickering at Kevin's gal. Finally when it was his turn, he looked up, hands in his pockets, and laughed in Kevin's face. He couldn't help it. The other man looked absurd.

Kevin looked down at Mickey with the lenses of his sunglasses pushed out and up. They were a bright gold shade. The visor he wore around his growing black hair was neon yellow and had a hole through the brim. He was sucking on a cigarette and clad in boxers that obviously used to be white but were now a faded pink, with a blank white tank top, socks and sandals. His feet were propped up in the window. Fanning himself with a Klondike wrapper.

"What the hell?" Mickey asked snidely.

"It's hot as balls, man," Kevin said, his voice muffled because of the smoke hanging loosely between his lips. And Mickey figured that yeah, it was pretty god damned hot.

Mickey raised his brows, smirking a little. The children in line behind him bitched and moaned. Kevin quieted them by letting Mickey in the truck and serving the orders before the crowd disappeared.

"You look like a fucking My Little Pony outcast," Mickey commented as they sat there in silence.

Kevin looked at him and shrugged. "Hey," he began raising his arms out to the sides and smiled open mouthed, "at least I'm cooling off. It's a bitch in here with that fan out." He pointed to the fan behind Mickey's head, and the younger man craned to look back at it. Kevin settled back, legs sprawled apart as he slouched horrible, hands folded across his stomach. He wagged his head at Mickey, grinning. "You watch My Little Pony often, huh?" he asked sarcastically, baiting.

Mickey stared at him, ticked off at the drop of such talk. He had been in the middle of pulling a popscicle from the freezer. "Man, fuck you!" he growled about to walk the fuck out.

"All right, all right," Kevin said laughingly, holding his hands out in surrender, trying his best at talking down the glare of death. "No need to get so testy, sweety."

And Mickey threw a rocket pop at him, then, still glaring.

"Why are you out here, anyway?" Kevin asked, hopping his knees and tapping his toes. He stretched his arms behind his head, inhaling his own stench, no doubt.

Mickey wrinkled his nose. "I figured I could earn some extra cash off you," he said.

"Selling ice-cream?" Kevin asked, already catching on.

Mickey deadpanned. "You sent Gallagher my way, I'm assuming."

"Yup," Kevin said, spinning in him chair.

That night Mickey and Kevin grabbed their weapons of choice, dropped Kevin's baby off with its grandmother, who apparently was not on good terms with Kevin currently, and stalked through Mickey's old neighborhood. All this, of course, after having paid one of Kevin's friends to watch the Alibi and cover Mickey's shift.

Kevin stood off to the side, the gun pressed against his chest. He had foregone the circus attire for a more suiting pair of jeans and too large t-shirt. Mickey rolled up in the same outfit he'd been wearing for three days now, baseball bat being used as a cane. Mickey banged hard on the door with the side of his fist four times. He heard movement inside and wondered if maybe Eddie and whoever else he had in there with him thought maybe Mickey and Kevin were the cops. The knock had certainly come across as such. The door swung open, though, so if they thought this was a visit from the Chicago police department, the motherfuckers had more guts than they let on. Mickey found himself nose to nose with a shotgun. Kevin stared, mouth agape. Mickey's eyes went wide. But this wasn't something he wasn't used to. Quickly he gained his composure and lifted his bat up to slide the gun away from his face. "Point that shit in your own face," Mickey sneered.

Eddie Silvestro puckered up his face. His chin was almost non-existent. Mickey figured from inbreeding. His eyes were also too close together, and his nose was flat and pointed. "Mickey fucking Milkovich?" Eddie spat out both shocked and dismayed. "Thought you were dead or something!"

"Wrong," Mickey said and cocked his head, smiling. "You gonna let me in, Eddie?"

"Like hell," a voice boomed form inside. A voice Mickey recognized as the other Silvestro brother.

Mickey kept his head cocked. "Thought you two weren't on speaking terms?" he asked, now curious.

Eddie seemed to ease up, lowering the shotgun. He still stood blocking the doorway as well as Mickey's ability to see inside. Not to say that Mickey didn't try. Eddie told Mickey he and his brother had found a solution to their squabble over their profits. No doubt referring to the fact that they were insisting Kevin give over his entire stash of marijuana in exchange for what they so eloquently referred to Kevin in their letter as his "niggar slut." Spelled wrong because they were even too stupid to be racist properly.

Mickey grinned over at Kevin, and gave himself away on purpose. Eddie cursed and backed up, throwing the gun's nose in Mickey's direction again. Mickey could see by the look on Kevin's face that the older man that he had gone bananas. He obviously didn't know how Mickey worked, and why should he. Mickey hadn't completely nailed his knack for busting up people until his work in Indianapolis. He had certain way of going about things that made the situation fun. More interesting. He looked away from Kevin when he felt the wind off the gun as it lifted towards his face. He threw himself at Eddie, the gun not even going off once. Mainly because Mickey was admittedly great at smelling out someone's bullshit. Especially fear. He knew Eddie hadn't had the guts to pull the trigger.

Kevin was in the door, gun blazing before the other Silvestor boy had time to piss his pants. Veronica, who was taped up to the chair near the stairs, looked ever grateful yet terrified. It was very Pulp Fiction, Kevin later said to Ian has he sat at Kevin's kitchen table. Mickey had snorted at that while Veronica forced him into having his ear sown up. Because Eddie's brother had had a little more bite and balls. Neither of the Silvestros had been killed, though, only maimed.

Veronica left shortly after mending Kevin and Mickey. She was going to pick up the baby and stop by to see Fiona, even though visiting hours were over. She didn't care. Mickey kind of admired her resolve after having been kidnapped.

So once alone the three men had decided to go on a beer run, and not the kind Mickey was used to. He went along, but only because he liked the idea of free booze, since Kevin was buying. Not because he liked Kevin a little more each time they interacted. And certainly not at the prospect of spending a few hours with Ian fucking Gallagher, who he wished made his skin crawl, but in fact only made it flush.

Mickey only made it three beers in before he looked up at Kevin from the bottom step of the backyard stoop. Kevin was leaning on the doorway, looking satisfied. Ian sat stretched out on a step three above Mickey, watching the stars.

"What the fuck kind of beer is this?" Mickey asked rudely before he burped.

"Bud Light Platinum," Kevin said. "Its alcohol content is a fucklot stronger than most."

"Noticed," Mickey said and turned back around, once again staring off into space.

Ian chuckled. "Not drunk already, are you?" he taunted.

"Fuck off," Mickey said as Kevin joined in on the chuckling then walked inside for another beer. "You've been sipping that one like a pussy since we started."

Ian gave a toothy smirk but said nothing in response.

Kevin never came back, and Mickey suspected it had something to do with the thump and groan he had heard some ten minutes ago. Ian suggested that one of them should check to see that Kevin wasn't hurt, but Mickey scoffed at the notion.

"He's probably just passed out," Mickey said, dangling the beer between his legs limply.

Ian must have agreed because he didn't bring it back up. The redhead finally finished his first beer when he sat up.

"So," Ian eventually said, breaking the silence, "what's in Indianapolis?"

Mickey thought that was pretty fucking brave of Ian to ask such to the point questions, and hated him for it just the same as he thought it was attractive. But shook the thought, frowning. That was the problem with still letting Ian hang around him. Mickey couldn't get back into the mindset he had worked so hard to build up over the years. The mindset where he and dick didn't associate often.

"None of you god damned concern," Mickey rumbled.

And Ian huffed then. "Probably not worth hearing anyway," he mumbled bitterly. But of course he was so close to Mickey that the bearded man heard each word and the tone behind them.

Mickey whirled around his upper half and tossed his empty beer bottle away. "You have some fucking nerve," he hissed.

They stared at each other for a while. Finally Mickey turned back around and the subject was dropped. It was near two o'clock when Veronica came home, immediately cursing an angry and astonished hell no at Kevin's passed out form within the dark recesses of their home. The men outside couldn't see what was happening, but figured it wasn't pleasant and quickly made their way from the premises, via scaling the fence.


	21. Faggat

Sometimes Ian wished he had just kept avoiding Mickey Milkovich after their most recent fuck. Because they were spending more and more time together, and the more they spent, the more Ian longed for, well. . . more.

It was getting to the point that Ian couldn't keep himself away even when Mickey was being exceptionally cruel. Really, Ian didn't know why he was such a glutton for punishment. Mickey had said it more than once now, past and present: They were done. At least the sexual part of their relationship was done. Now Ian wasn't quite sure what was going on between them. The casual breakfasts had turned into all out high on ganja movie nights and races at the baseball field when neither of them could sleep, where Mickey got pissed even when he won. For some reason. He was a sore winner. Ian had even crashed in Mickey's apartment. Nothing had gone on between them other than watching the Scifi channel out of boredom and playing a few video games. Mickey had acted obnoxious, but had let Ian stay on his uncomfortable sofa, and Ian had pretended that he didn't know Mickey locked the bedroom door.

The whole friendship was weird and painful. At least for Ian. It seemed as though Mickey was fine with being around Ian, openly spending what was honestly a rather good time together. So long as they weren't fucking. So long as sex was never brought into question. So long as Ian didn't give him even the hint of a funny glance. Ian kind of got the feeling that Mickey wanted him around just as badly as Ian wanted to be. And Debbie, who had found out everything from a blabber-mouth Lip, told Ian that Mickey was probably just afraid for some stupid reason. But she was a teenager, and Ian knew just how much he had really known at that age. Not a fuck of a lot; not as much as he had thought. Still he wondered if, at least to some degree, Debbie was on to something. Although he was probably fooling himself. Because yesterday, Ian had caught Mickey on the payphone with a woman, and Mandy had told Ian that the woman was Mickey's girl. Sort of.

Ian paced the hospital lobby during the evening, after he and Mickey parted ways so that Mickey could get to the Alibi Room. Ian had been mean to Mickey on purpose when they parted because he was jealous of the woman in Indianapolis and openly admitted it to only himself. And he hated the fact. Wished he could just move one.

He just kept thinking that he knew better than anyone that Mickey was gay. Hell, so far as Ian was aware, even Mandy didn't know. And she and Mickey seemed close these days. So why the hell was Mickey fucking a woman? It dawned on Ian then that maybe Mickey swung both ways. It would certainly explain a hell of a lot. He growled to himself, ready to pull his hair out. Probably would have, if not for a hand landing firmly on his shoulder. He turned around to see Lip's smiling face.

"What's your matter?" Lip asked. And when Ian shook it off to be nothing important, Lip sighed. "Maybe you should stop seeing him," he said randomly. Knowing.

Ian just stared at his brother.

"It would hurt less," Lip continued. "It did before, after a while."

Ian scowled and ignored the odd glances the other people in the lobby were throwing in the brothers' direction. "Don't you lecture me on my love life," Ian snapped. "At least  _mine_  is honest."

Lip snorted and frowned. He crossed his arms and quipped, "Does telling yourself that help you sleep better?"

Ian blanched at him. A lump threatened his voice. Lip knew how to cut someone deep. A trait he had picked up from the late Monica. Of course, Ian guessed he, too, sometimes pulled the same card. Just had, if he was being honest.

Lip shook his head and sat down in a seat in front of Ian. He stared up with wide, in-your-face, eyes. "Mickey's a fucking complicated dick," he said, serious. "And I should know. I've been something close to friends on and off with the guy my entire life."

Ian couldn't really argue. Though he only vaguely remembered Lip and Mickey hanging around each other before Monica left when Lip was thirteen. Now they were hanging around each other again in that stoner sort of relationship. But Mickey was a dick. Ian couldn't argue that. And one of the more complicated people to waltz into Ian's life. Although, he had done more along the lines of stumbling in and tearing Ian's life to hell.

"Just leave it," Lip said forcefully firm. "It's not worth the heartache. I went through the same shit with Karen."

And Ian thought his face must have crumbled, then. Because Lip looked abruptly concerned. But kept on.

"You remember," Lip said, "because you were the one who knocked sense into  _me_."

Ian closed his mouth and will away the tears that sat just beyond the border of his lids, ready to spring. He shook his head and closed his eyes. "No," he corrected, "you had to figure that one out on your own.  _That_  I remember." He paused, fighting with himself trying to explain away his heartache. "Maybe I just have to do the same," he said, trying to convince himself along with his older brother.

Lip frowned and stretched his feet out, touching his brother's shoe toes with his own. "Look, Ian, if you already know there's something negative to solve," Lip said softly, "then maybe you should just rip the Band-Aid off."

The twisting of Ian's gut did not let up, and the sinking feeling only worsened. He moaned and knitted his brow, rubbing his pursed mouth. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," he trailed.

That night, the eldest Gallagher boy got a little too drunk and ahead of himself. Lip apparently decided to be Ian's keeper. This went unknown to Ian, who was sleeping in Mandy's room while Lip stalked into the Alibi, sitting patiently waiting for his father's departure. After Frank left, Lip stared blank at Mickey for a long time. Mickey noticed this, easily, as Lip wasn't hiding his disgust. And Mickey didn't know what the hell Lip's problem was. The longer Lip kept glaring at Mickey, the closer Mickey came to tipping the scale; on side Mickey felt Lip's stare crawling under his skin and was so fucking nagged by it that he wanted to reach over and snap Gallagher in two. On the other Mickey was trying to brush it off because he hated to let someone get to him.

Kevin had stayed on for the night because he wanted to keep an eye on Elis. More booze had gone missing over the last couple weeks. May was ending, and Kevin made it known that his gross intake was less than it should have been for the month. Because someone, Elis he had blamed, was stealing shit. Veronica had blamed Mickey once right to his face, and Kevin had taken up for the younger man, foolishly. So since he was around, Kevin was doing most of the serving, leaving Mickey to work barback. Which Mickey hated. Because he fucking loathed cleaning up after anyone. Hell, even himself.

Kevin cocked a brow at Lip and stood in front of his view of Mickey's back. "How's Fi?" Kevin asked, having to speak a little loudly because of the ruckus.

Lip looked down at the bar, relaxing his face. "Terrible," he said. "She just keeps getting worse." Kevin handed him a shot or dark liquor and Lip slung it back. He sat the shot-glass down. "Her heart is beating irregular, and not the irregular that can be overlooked. Her kidneys are shutting down." He swallowed before he finished saying, "They have her on dialysis."

"Fuck," Kevin breathed and looked down at the counter, face drooping. "Veronica came home crying this morning over her," he commented. "I wish Fiona would stop."

"Yeah," Lip sighed. His eyes were pools of despair. "We all do. Even Frank to some degree. You know," Lip paused, smiling a little, "he actually came to see her a few days ago. This time he was polite. And I think he was sober."

"That's a fucking rarity," Kevin commented.

Mickey tried not to listen in, but found himself doing so anyway. He was glad when Kevin walked away to take an order across the room, as a new group of four walked in late. Glad because he didn't like that he was interested enough in Ian Gallagher's life to care about the other man's older sister. Well, perhaps care was a strong word. He had only met her on occasion years ago. So no, he didn't care, not for Fiona's sake anyway.

He stopped stacking glasses when he heard Lip call him over, asking for another beer. Mickey frowned and pulled one from the cooler. He walked the short distance to Lip and sat the bottle down offensively. Lip glared up at him and jerked the beer from Mickey's grasp. This action caused Mickey's temper to flare. "You got a problem with me?" Mickey demanded.

"Yes," Lip said honest and proper.

Mickey sneered.

"I want you to stop hanging around Ian," Lip said, sounding more like an overprotective father than Ian's older brother.

By this time, Kevin had come back to the bar and was mixing a drink off to the far side.

Mickey jumped at Lip's insinuating words. He reached out fast and grabbed Lip's face. His hands pushed hard into Lip's cheeks, bruising. Lip's eyes widened because, whether Lip was a tough guy or not, everyone was afraid of Mickey when he was grinning.

"You keep your god damned tone down, Gallagher," Mickey said calmly. "Don't fucking bring that shit in here."

Kevin was watching them over his shoulder. Mickey wasn't paying attention.

"And what if I don't?" Lip attempted to threaten, but failed because he was still looking at Mickey's grin with scared eyes. "What if tell everyone what a prick you are?"

"You don't have the balls," Mickey said, drone like as his grin faltered.

"Oh yeah?" Lip growled, growing brave. Mickey felt the other man's pulse beating rapid. His adrenaline was pumping into overload. Lip was in fight or flight mode, and Mickey though he knew which way Lip would swing. "Let go of my face," Lip said loudly, "faggat!"

And Mickey honestly wasn't sure what happened after that. Just that Kevin was suddenly on top of him and Lip was scrambling out the door. He figured he had blacked out and attacked Lip. It was the most obvious of scenarios.


	22. Own Up

Ian sat at his usual booth in the Ramshackle Café, tapping his fingers. A fly buzzed by him a few times before fleeing as Ian put the fear of God into it. He kept looking at his watch. It was almost eleven. What there hell was Mickey? Ian wanted to get a hold so him somehow and give Mickey up the river for wasting the morning. But Ian didn't know Mickey's home number. Plus Mickey probably wasn't still at home anyway. Ian sighed heavily, feeling nauseated. Ian knew he was feeling ill because he had been planning on sabotaging himself today. Ripping off the Band-Aid. But there was no Mickey here with him to piss off. So not only had he been feeling sick because of his plans, now he was being stood up, which made it even worse. It also didn't help that the waitress kept looking at Ian with pity every time she refilled his water. So after having sat there for almost an hour, Ian ignored that horribly crushing feeling weighing on him and left. He walked a few blocks to the hospital. It was very sunny today. Not a cloud in sight. And hot. Damn it was scorching.

He stopped in to see to see Mandy before going into Fiona's room to take Liam off Jimmy's hands. Mickey hadn't even been in to see Mandy yet. She was pretty upset. So upset that she really wasn't in the mood for Ian's company. So he left after a few minutes and crossed the hall.

Fiona's room was an oven. The air was cut off and her window was open, letting heat roll in. Ian could feel his clothes beginning to stick to him after only a few minutes in the room. Jimmy said it was because they were having a hard time keeping Fiona warm. Her temperature was too low. And as Ian stared down at her, he realized that she was the only one who was shivering. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip, swallowing hard. "Is there anything I can get you?" Ian asked his sister, rubbing her arm.

Fiona was barely able to shake her head. Her eyes weren't even open.

Jimmy, who was quietly sitting near the window watching Liam color, finally spoke. His eyes were bloodshot. "Thanks, Ian," he said, and then added, soft but bitter, "But I don't think we can do much of anything except sit here and watch."

Ian nodded in understanding, wiped his forehead of the sweat already forming there, and left with Liam shortly after.

By the time the two got back to Jimmy and Fiona's, Liam was in a foul mood. He sat pouting on the sofa, sniffling into his stuffed elephant. Ian kissed his forehead and brought the child a grilled cheese sandwich. He turned on cartoons for his little brother just as Lip walked in. Lip smiled but Ian frowned; he was suspicious of the large box of Ihop takeout.

"How did you know I hadn't had breakfast?" Ian asked, sitting beside of Liam and holding Liam's tiny feet.

Lip shrugged and sat the box down on the coffee table, smiling. "I didn't," he started.

Ian patted Liam's shin and the boy lifted his legs, hugging them to his chest. Ian sat up and opened the takeout. He knitted his brow, staring into the warm box. "It's Tuesday," he said, as if Lip should know better.

Lip cocked his head and plopped down beside of Liam, stealing the box away from Ian. He pulled a warm bagel out and crammed it into his mouth. With a full mouth he said, "So? Is that supposed to mean something?"

Ian rolled his eyes and took a bagel for himself. His stomach growled in anticipation as he took a bite. "You know I usually have breakfast with Mickey on Tuesdays," he said after swallowing.

Lip reached in for another bagel, eating this one slower and with manners. "He bail?" Lip asked after a brief pause, not really looking at Ian as he ate.

Ian frowned and exhaled loudly as Liam sat up. The child canned his grilled cheese for a bacon bagel. Ian sat back in the sofa, nibbling his food.

"Yeah," Ian said. "But we haven't fought, so I don't know why. Mickey rarely misses out on free food."

Lip hummed and licked his fingers clean.

"And he hasn't been by to see Mandy," Ian exclaimed, riled. "She's pissed. Mickey always brings her a smoke and some coffee. It's not right."

Lip scratched his head and stared at the cartoon on television. Ian stared at him, waiting for a response. He frowned and opened his mouth to ask Lip why he was suddenly so quiet, but Liam tugged his sleeve, halting Ian.

"Will Fiona die?" Liam asked, eyes filled with tears and pieces of bagel stuck to his face. "She won't will she, Ian?"

Ian blinked down at his baby brother. "No," he said, then wished he hadn't because honestly, he thought she might. After the way she was looking lately. Liam deserved honesty, even if he was a child. "Let's hope not," he corrected gently, staring down into large, brown, watery eyes.

Lip coughed a little and rubbed Liam's back. "Hey, buddy," he said, soothing, "Fiona's a Gallagher, so that means she's a survivor. Trust me," he grinned and pulled the boy to his lap, "she's fighting this with everything she has."

"Will she win?" Liam asked, his face buried in Lip's chest.

And Lip looked back at Ian. They shared a silent knowing. "Maybe," Lip said, not breaking eye contact. "Maybe if she can keep fighting for a few more weeks."

Ian hoped his big brother was right. But felt like crying anyway because he had seen death a lot, and Fiona looked like death. But it was true. Even though Fiona's baby was still underdeveloped in the womb, it would be six months in a few weeks, and there was a possibility it could survive on its own. If Fiona would just let the doctors induce labor.

A while later, Liam had fallen asleep on Lip's chest while watching  _Phineas and Ferb_. Ian had actually dozed off himself. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his feet were resting on the coffee table beside of the empty Ihop box. His head was tilted, lolling onto his shoulder as he slept. But he jerked awake from his light slumber when Lip got up from the couch, balancing Liam. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and cleared his throat of grogginess, blinking hard up at Lip to focus his vision.

Lip walked Liam to the back room and returned a few minutes later, scratching his stomach and yawning."I'm not one for naps usually," Lip commented through his yawn, "but fuck I'm tired."

Ian smirked, now standing from the sofa and stretching. He nodded and turned the television off. The room darkened a little, so Ian walked over to the window and raised Fiona's blackout curtains. The clock on the television box read one thirty in the afternoon. Lip squinted away from the sudden sunlight and began gathering up the trash and crumbs from the coffee table. Ian followed him into the kitchen. As Lip threw away the trash, Ian poured himself a glass of water from the spigot. He chugged it down and observed his brother's odd silence. Lip finally looked back at him.

"Was he at work last night?" Ian asked haphazardly. Apparently Ian and Lip had both been thinking on the same person for one reason or another, Ian pondered. They must have been, since Lip automatically scratched at his head and nodded, not even confused for a second. Ian frowned and looked down at his empty glass. "Was he acting weird?" he asked, hesitant.

Lip scoffed. "Mickey's always acting strange," he said.

Ian rolled his eyes and sat the glass down. He placed a hand on his hip, the other gripped the sink. "You know what I mean," he said, serious. "Did he act like he was going to leave Chicago?" When Lip didn't answer right away, Ian continued, filling the silence. "He keeps talking about it," he began. "But I had hoped he would stick around until the hospital released Mandy. She gets to leave in four days."

Lip scowled and fooled with his shirt sleeve. "Yeah, well, Mickey doesn't really give a shit about anyone unless it suits him," Lip bit. "Seems fitting he would leave early."

Ian furrowed his brow. He wanted to defend Mickey. Really he did. But how could he when Mickey was AWOL?

Lip laughed sourly. "That guy is a piece of work," he said, turning from Ian to the refrigerator to pull out a beer. "Leaving his sister right now." He turned back around, cracking open the bottle. "Where's Mandy staying when she gets out?" he asked, concerned. "She won't talk to me about it."

Ian shook his head. "I don't know. She was supposed to stay with Mickey in Indianapolis," he sighed. "But he refused to take her back with him now."

"Fucking prick," Lip said quietly.

Ian sniffed hard and rubbed his face. He knitted his brow when he looked back to his brother. The room was oddly quiet. He studied Lip's face. Finally he crossed his arms and inhaled deeply before asking, "What the hell happened to your face?"

Lip's eyes widened and his brows went up, mouth agape slightly. He shook himself. "Oh," he began, "I got into it with the guy Jimmy made that Lamborghini deal with. He's acting like he won't pay up." When Ian remained silent, still staring with his arms crossed and face hard, Lip cleared his throat and continued to obviously lie. "I fucking told Jimmy about the guy being shady, you know. But Jimmy wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. So anyway, I went over and got the money. Guess it blew up in my face, though," he laughed. "Quite literally."

Ian's frowned deepened. "You're lying," he outed. "Why?"

Getting defensive, Lip said, "No I'm not! Why the hell would I lie?"

"I don't know," Ian said sarcastically. "And if you aren't lying, why are you getting so defensive?"

Lip wrinkled his nose and tossed the half full beer into the sink. "I'm defensive because you're accusing me!" he walled.

"Bullshit," Ian hissed. "What did you do?"

"What the fuck?" Lip spat. "Nothing!"

Ian wasn't sure who threw the first punch, since throughout the yelling, the two brother's had slowly moved into close quarters. Both loose cannons. But it was plainly obvious that neither of them was going to give up, even when they crashed into the kitchen table and broken one of Fiona's chairs. Even when Liam woke up and was standing in the kitchen archway, crying for them to stop. It wasn't until Liam flung himself onto Ian's back that the fight stopped. Breathing heavy as Liam held the redhead's arm, Ian stared down at Lip. Lip spat blood and groaned, holding his gut.

"What did you do?" Ian repeated.

Lip took a minute, catching his breath. Finally he looked away from Ian, wiping his nose and stared off into space, ashamed. "I picked a fight with Mickey last night," he admitted, furious as the words came from his mouth.

"You what?" Ian yelled, angry and shocked. "Please tell me you didn't say anything stupid!"

"Jesus!" Lip barked and looked back at Ian as he punched the floor. "He almost killed me!" When Ian only continued to look down with a pursed, disappointed face, Lip laughed, "The guy tries to kill your brother and you're still on his side!"

Ian looked down at Lip though thin lips and shook his head. He turned to Liam, assuring the boy that the fight was over. When Liam let go of his arm, Ian threw his arms up and turned around. He slammed the door as he fled. And he ran as fast as he could to the El entrance, boarded the train. He must have looked frantic because he got many stares before his stop. And he continued running after he got off the El.

Ian was completely out of breath, face red when he reached the Alibi and climbed the alley stairs to Mickey's back door. He banged loudly on the door. His lungs burned and he struggled to catch his breath. His insides churned. Mickey was probably gone. Who knew what Lip had said to Mickey. Mickey was a ticking time bomb, and it took very little to send him flying. Ian stared at the door, desperate even though in his heart he knew Mickey was gone. Which was why he actually gasped when the door opened and Mickey looked out at him, eyes unsure and guarded.


	23. The Ship is Swayed

_Mickey picked at his nails until one of them began gushing blood. He hissed a curse and shook his wound violently._

_After going to his bathroom and wrapping his finger in toilet paper to try and stop the bleeding, Mickey paced in and out of the tiny bathroom, trying not to stumble over the mess that was his floor. He shot glances at the duffle bag he had packed. It was sitting by the door, waiting for him. And damn he wanted to take it and go. Had even called Brenda last night after Kevin told him to sleep off his temper. Had said he would be back by the next night. Tonight. He wanted to get as far from this place and fast. So why was he staring at the bag instead of walking out the door_

_He scowled at the bag as if it had offended him and gripped down on his finger until it turned cold. Closing his eyes, finally, Mickey took a breather and ran his uninjured hand through his disheveled hair and over his smooth face. He had shaved earlier. Not because he hadn't liked his beard, but because he had needed something to get him through breakfast. Or actually, his lack of breakfast. Now he missed his facial hair._

_Mickey kicked his wall and yelled loudly about nothing in particular. His racket was probably bothering Kevin and the early evening barflies, but Mickey didn't give a shit who he inconvenienced. He stomped the floor while he was at it. Because he was leaving anyway; he didn't need this job. Wouldn't need a job like this ever again if he could just get back to fucking Indianapolis. So Mickey stomped until he was out of breath and then collapsed and slid down the wall. He banged his head back against it and growled._

_Fuck Philip Gallagher._

_And then his door shook_.  _Mickey opened his eyes wide and stared at the door. The banging was only slightly shown up by his rapid heart rate._

_He wasn't going to answer it. No. He was definitely not answering because he knew who it was. Kevin would have just used the connecting hallway door to downstairs. Mickey was not answering his back door because he knew it was Ian._

_Yet he answered it anyway._

Immediately he wished he hadn't because Mickey could feel his resolve slipping. The bag by his feet was like a magnet and he stared at it before tearing his eyes away and looking into the flushed and crumpled face of Ian fucking Gallagher. Where had he seen this before? He suddenly had a bad case of déjà vu.

"What do you want?" he asked hatefully. His hand rested on the door.

Looking at him, shocked, Ian breathed through his mouth, regarding Mickey over as if he were a delusion. "You're still here," Ian said dumbly.

"Yeah?" Mickey snarled. "Can you not be?"

Ian swallowed and smiled while catching his breath. He looked too relieved. Mickey hated that Ian seemed so happy. But what he hated more was that his stomach was doing cartwheels in some kind of sadistic duet with his heart. He licked his lips, still scowling, and tried not to think.

"What did Lip say to you?" Ian suddenly demanded as he appeared to get control of himself. His face straightened up and he was looking at Mickey with determination.

Mickey laughed. His grip on the door tightened and he looked down to the duffle bag. He knew Ian's eyes followed his gaze. He also knew the door was opened wide enough that Ian probably saw the packed bag. "Get out of here," Mickey said. "Let's just say I'm done with South Side. For good this time."

Ian looked panicked again. "What about Mandy?" he burst.

Mickey tried not to falter. "She'll be fine," Mickey said low. But he frowned and his face dropped as his chest grew heavy.

Ian knitted his brow. "Fine how?" he barked. "Who will take care of her?"

Mickey gritted his teeth. "Well it sure as shit won't be your fucking brother," he began, now looking back at Ian with malice. "Cause he'll be six feet under the ground, chocking on his own blood and wrapped in a fucking sheet before I leave this city."

"You won't," Ian said, shaking his head and looking Mickey over. "You won't kill him. You didn't kill Frank."

Mickey's eyes bugged. His frown twisted. He thought about slamming the door. Mickey hoped, really hoped, that Ian didn't intend on bringing up that part of their past. They had yet to even mention it. Hell, Ian had even been smart enough not to ask Mickey about why Mickey had left Chicago after juvie. When they spoke, the two usually just talked about the here and now. Mickey less than Ian because he didn't want to disclose much about himself. As was common between he and Ian. That hadn't changed. So when Ian brought up the day Frank's life hung in the balance, Mickey actually flinched. But he covered his tracks well, scowling fast. Ian stared at him; lips parted and face still flushed. And Mickey didn't know how to handle this because what he wanted to do and what his dick wanted were on opposite spectrums. Mickey fucking hated it, and he hated Ian for making him feel like this. He raised his lip and did what he was good at. "Well I fucking should have," Mickey huffed.

"But you didn't," Ian said, "because I asked you not to. And I'm asking you now not to kill Lip."

Mickey's body jerked and he gaped at Ian. "I didn't not kill Frank for your sake," he spat. "Frank's alive because I pussied out," he admitted, probably for the first time. Mickey also hated how honest he could be with Ian. How honest he  _let_  himself be.

Ian shook his head and his adam's apple bobbed. "That's because you aren't capable of killing someone, Mickey," he said, faithful.

Mickey laughed again, bitterly. "That's where you're wrong," Mickey said, voice a deadly whisper. "I was kid then. You wanna know what I do in Indianapolis?" he continued, now squinting and wetting his lips, maybe hoping if he let his darkness show that Ian would just leave. "I kill people over drug money. That's what I do, Ian. I fuck them up, and then I kill them if they don't hand over the goods. I'm not a moral person. I never have been. You're just too god damned stupid and naive to grasp it. And apparently so is Lip because he fucked with the wrong side of me last night."

Ian looked disbelieving. He looked Mickey over, hurt and stunned. Mickey let go of his door and dug his hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. The heat from outside was almost unbearable today, and his black tank top clung to him, almost suffocating. More suffocating than Ian's gaze.

"No," Ian croaked. "I can't believe that."

"You should," Mickey said, calmly. "Look who the fuck you're talking to. Open your fucking eyes, Ian."

"No, Mick, you. . ." Ian trailed, still shaking his head. His eyes glazed over.

Mickey inhaled fast and deep, lips parted and head tilted. His shoulders ached from last night and his head was busting from the bottle of Jack he had had to himself. "I'm a Milkovich," he said, final, as if it should explain all. "It's how I was raised. You can't change who you are. What you're born into."

"That's not true," Ian said, eyes watering. He kept Mickey's attention, not pulling his eyes away from the convict's for even a second. "I know you, Mickey. I've seen you with your guard down," he stated. "You aren't like your family."

Mickey scoffed. "You just don't know when to give up," he yelled. "I'm fucked," he said, lowering his voice to a mere harshness as he pointed to his chest. "Mandy's the only one of us who—"

The sudden ringing in Ian's shorts pocket interrupted. The redhead looked at Mickey, panicked. He must have thought Mickey would shut the door. And probably Mickey should have. He wanted to. But he didn't. Just watched as Ian reluctantly answered his phone. The situation was almost surreal. He looked over the wet streaks on Ian's cheeks. Listened as Ian's voice grew hysterical when he spoke to the person on the other line. He watched Ian choke as fresh tears oozed to the surface. As Ian grabbed his chest, his freckled face a perfect example of devastation. Mickey's heart jumped and began to race away. His own face loosened into maintained concern. Ian hung up the phone, his breathing erratic. He put a hand over his face and chocked out a sob. Mickey was both repulsed and drawn. Ian swallowed, letting go of his face and taking in a sharp breath. His wide eyes begged Mickey.

"Please," Ian breathed, "don't go anywhere."

And Mickey watched, curious and stunned as Ian ran down his stairs and across the street, disappearing from Mickey's sight.


	24. Cardiac

Even after Ian Gallagher was far from his line of sight, Mickey stood in his doorway, staring down at the asphalt. Finally he closed his door and stepped back inside to the air conditioning. He leaned back against the door and looked down at his duffle bag. His heart rate had slowed down, but he felt sick now. His head was still pounding, but Mickey knew that wasn't the source of his nausea.

"God damn it. Fucking Gallaghers," he whispered to himself as he stared at his bag. He kicked it hard and walked over to his coffee table. He plucked his packet of cigarettes and sat down, lighting one up. He sucked on it frantically until it burned his fingers. He threw the butt against his shitty television and spat a ring of curses to the likes even he was offended by. When he had calmed down, Mickey leaned down and put his throbbing head in his dirty hands. His fingers went slightly into his hair and he noted that it was beyond greasy. Sighing, Mickey lifted his head only enough to look sideways at the telephone he had used to call Brenda last night. In a way, that had been stupid. Mickey had stuck to using only payphones to call home since being back in Chicago. For good reason. The only people who had his home number were the hospital and Kevin. Kevin only because he had snooped around until he found it, just so he could call and wake Mickey up on the days Mickey slept in and forgot about work. Because Mickey usually didn't answer his door. Even if it did wake him up. But he always ran to the phone because the hospital might be calling. Kevin played dirty and Mickey kind of respected that. Gallagher played dirty too, crying like he had.

"Shit!" Mickey snarled and shook himself. He hurled his coffee table over and stood up. He looked around, unsure of what his intentions were. His eyes kept going back to the packed bag. But his thoughts kept going back to Mandy. Ian was right and Mickey hated that. Mandy couldn't take care of herself, even though she had insisted to Mickey that she was capable. He wasn't convinced, and up until Lip's show at the bar last night, Mickey had been planning on sticking around for maybe a week after Mandy got out. Just to see how she could handle herself. He knew sure as fuck that she couldn't come back with him to Indianapolis, so he wasn't sure what to do if Mandy couldn't care for herself. Hadn't thought that far ahead yet. He just knew he was in too deep back home, and the way Brenda was acting lately had him suspicious. If he was honest, Mickey knew exactly why Mandy took one in the back. But he didn't like to think on it too hard. Which was why, in a way, he knew he would flee Indianapolis as soon as he got into his storage. After collecting his stuff, Mickey really had no reason to stay there. Certainly not if Julio had found out about Mickey's deceit. Reason number one why using his home phone had been idiotic. But Mickey had been out of it on a bottle of Jack and three lines of coke. He hadn't been thinking clearly. So really, now he had no fucking choice but to get out of this area. Even now. Now when he was rethinking it.

Mickey actually considered taking Mandy and just not going back to Indianapolis. But the allure of what he had in his storage made him know that wasn't going to happen. At least not right away. He would just have to come back for her.

He screamed and put his foot through his television. It stung and he fell back on his ass, jerking it free and holding his now bleeding bare foot. Glass protruded from it. The television sparked. Mickey bit down on his lip and endured as he hobbled back into his bathroom. He turned on the bathtub spigot and stuck his foot under the running water. He hissed and began pulling out the glass quickly. The water ran red as Mickey freed his foot. He shut off the stream and wrapped his foot in the dirty towel behind the toilet. Who knew what was on it.

Eventually Mickey took some painkillers and wrapped his foot properly after limping to the Kash and Grab, shoe filled with blood, and helping himself to a ton of bandages and Neosporin. He sat on the El, duffle bag under his arm some fifteen minutes later. As he rode the line east, Ian's begging kept running through Mickey's head. He kept thinking about how his sister was going to react to this. So that was why he got off at the first stop and boarded a train back to South Side. That was why he limped back into the hospital floor. Not because Ian had cried, but because of Mandy.

He didn't look into the crack of Fiona's room because it was clearly empty. And he was glad, but found himself wondering what had happened. Ian had been far too upset. Mickey wondered if Ian sister had died. He sighed heavily and opened Mandy's door, juggling the bag until it was secure and comfortable. She was sleeping when he walked in and sat in the ugly pink recliner. But Mandy awoke when Mickey threw his bag down hard.

Mandy shot up in bed, one eye going retarded for a second. She blinked at him and wiped the drool from her cheek. "Mickey?" she rasped. "Where the hell have you been?"

He looked at her and licked the corner his mouth. Sighing heavily, he fought to ignore the cramps in his stomach. "I'm leaving, Mandy," he said quickly.

Her eyes widened and she looked him over in alarm. "What? What do you mean?" she stuttered. "I get out in four fucking days, you asshole!"

He frowned at her. "I'm sorry," he said, "I don't have a choice."

"Like hell!" she barked and twisted herself to face his better. "Stop fucking running from everything!"

His temper flared and Mickey clenched his fists, standing up and towering over Mandy, who had no fear in her eyes, only sadness.

"I'm not!" he growled. "And I'll be back! So calm your shit, bitch."

She stilled then, her face softening. She eased back down, staring up at him, confused. "Well where are you going?" she asked. "Can't it wait?"

Mickey shook his head and holstered his bag. He opened his mouth to speak, but a knock came to Mandy's door and a fat, graying man wearing scrubs and pushing a wheelchair walked in. When he said that he was taking Mandy down for x-rays, Mickey knew he would need to stay for maybe a few more hours. Mandy always got upset when the hospital checked up on her spine. So he sat his bag back down and walked with the nurse and Mandy downstairs. They left Mickey in a gigantic waiting room full of people. At first, Mickey didn't sit, he paced, scratching at his shoulder and looking around at the other people around him. He quickly noted that this waiting room was so large because it was for both the surgery wing and the radiology support wing. And a few of the people on this side of the waiting room looked putrid. Mickey scowled and made his way toward the exit on the other side. He needed a smoke. And need to get away from these people. Mickey hated crowds, especially sick ones. So he stalked past everyone, towards the door. He never quite made it to the door, though, because a group of people seated in a circle near it made him stop.

Mickey frowned. He was jonesing for a smoke. The only other door besides the one a few feet away from him, was practically across the hospital. Not literally, but it would have taken Mickey a while to reach it. And he didn't particularly want to go far, in case Mandy's x-ray ended quickly. She would freak out if he wasn't there. Especially now that Mandy knew he was leaving. So Mickey exhaled loudly, pulled his fresh pack of smoke from his pocket and began packing them as he hurriedly limped past the Gallagher family. He hoped they would be too distraught to notice him. And they were, save for an unexpected young man. Mickey didn't notice that he had been spotted though, having been too relieved when neither Ian nor Lip looked his way.

Standing outside, away from the door so as not to be accidentally see, Mickey ripped the paper from his pack and pulled out a cheap and shitty tasting cigarette. He lit it up and made a face at the thickness of the taste. He glanced sideways, paranoid as the door opened, and then froze mid puff.

It was Carl who had noticed Mickey. Carl, who apparently had no idea of Mickey and Lip's falling out. The Nazi looking motherfucker actually had the balls to walk over to Mickey and demand a cigarette. Not ask, demand. Mickey just stared at Carl for a minute. He hoped the guy hadn't mentioned Mickey to anyone, and hoped also that no one would follow Carl out. So, gritting his teeth and knitting his brow, Mickey tossed Carl a cigarette.

"They're Trackers," Mickey said as he handed over his lighter. "Don't expect much but a bad taste."

"Whatever," Carl said, lighting up, "I'd smoke god damned scrap right now."

Mickey was glad that Carl was like him, not much for conversation. He watched the guy sucked down the cigarette with little to no emotion other than distress on his face. Mickey looked over the odd tattoo that wrapped around Carl's head. Mickey eventually stopped looking at the door because no one was following Carl out, apparently. The older of the two hoped he wouldn't later regret letting his guard down. Flicking his ash, Mickey took a side glance at Carl, who was nearly finished with his cigarette even though he had started after Mickey.

"You should just grow your hair out," Mickey said, staring at Carl's head. "Cover that shit."

Carl glared at him. "Think I'll keep it," he said. "I like it. Fuck off."

"Just saying it looks fucking stupid," Mickey coughed out, smoke going down the wrong way. "You look like you're about to go set a cross on fire in someone's front yard."

Carl stared at Mickey blankly before a smirk creeped up on his face and he snorted.

The conversation ended there, as Mickey had intended it to. But as Carl put his cigarette out and began walking back inside, Mickey spoke again. He wasn't sure why he did. Kind of wished he hadn't. Carl stopped and looked back at Mickey with his hand on the door handle.

"My sister went into cardiac arrest," Carl stated.

Mickey just looked at him. Honestly, he had figured as much. He hadn't even told Ian or Lip about the time he had chased their youngest brother back into Fiona's room. Hadn't even mentioned how Fiona looked really a lot like how his own mother had looked when she gave birth to Mandy while strung out on pills. She'd lived through it, though. Mickey was too young to remember, most people would have told him if he's mentioned it, but Mickey had an impeccable memory. So after having actually set eye on Ian's sister, Mickey could have easily told anyone it was only a matter of time before her heart kicked it. That had even been before mickey remembered Ian having mentioned Fiona's test results. But instead of discussing this with Carl, Mickey just nodded and flicked his cigarette.

Carl breathed and looked down at the door. Mickey licked his teeth and waited for the other man to leave. He was sorely disappointed when the door opened against Carl and Carl lunged back, startled, then greeted the intruder.

Jimmy looked Mickey's way, face nearly grey. His stare didn't linger and he turned his attention to Carl. Mickey looked Jimmy over. The guy was puny and looked girly. But he also looked sly. Jimmy asked Carl for a cigarette, stating that his were upstairs.

"I ain't got one," Carl said, then jerked his thumb in Mickey's direction, "ask him."

Mickey scowled at Carl for volunteering him. But ended up giving Jimmy a cigarette anyway. Fuck it. They tasted like shit, so Mickey didn't care to be friendly with them. If they had been his preferred brand, the two men could have gone and fucked themselves. Jimmy had his own lighter.

Carl left the two alone and Mickey found himself oddly uncomfortable. He didn't know Jimmy from shit. Most people hadn't caught on to it yet, and Mickey was thankful; Mickey was horrible around new people. His social skills were shit, if it weren't obvious. So Mickey over compensated by being a total bastard. It was easier to deal with people when being cruel to them. Gave Mickey a sense of having power when inside he felt ashamed and without control.

Mickey stared at Jimmy, who was looking at him funny as he sucked on his smoke. Mickey wanted to walk away. But he wasn't going to walk around the building for another entrance. And he sure as fuck wasn't going to risk walking back through the door to the waiting room. He wished he had considered this situation before coming outside. Mickey thought he should have just sat near the sick people and endured.

"You're Ian's friend," Jimmy stated.

Mickey fucking hated that Ian had obviously been talking about the two of them hanging out outside of the hospital. Felt his blood both run cold and boil at the same time. It was a weird feeling and mickey didn't know how to handle it, as it was foreign.

"Don't make me yours," Mickey commented and lit up another cigarette. He looked away from Jimmy.

For a while there silence. Unfortunately, Jimmy was apparently the type for idle chit-chat. Mickey kind of figured it was partly because the guy's wife was maybe dying somewhere in the building.

"I told them to give her a cesarean," Jimmy said, not looking Mickey's way.

Mickey didn't know why he was being told this. Hated when people included him.

"She's going to hate me," Jimmy said, voice dead. "If she makes it."

Mickey looked at him briefly. He grunted. Wanted to puke when he heard the guy sniffle.

"Maybe it'll survive," Mickey said, then kicked himself inwardly.

Jimmy was looking at him, hopeful. "I doubt it," he sighed. "Fiona wasn't far enough along." After a long pause, he swallowed. His adam's apple bobbed and seemed stuck in his throat for a second. "But maybe," he said, finally.

It was only a short while later that Jimmy made his way back inside. Mickey didn't follow him in because he knew that everyone would notice him then for certain. So he hung around outside. Eventually, though, Mickey knew he needed to get back inside. Mandy was probably done getting her x-ray and forcing the nurse to wait in the room for Mickey. So finally Mickey sucked up his pride and walked back inside. He didn't see Mandy yet. As he had figured would happen since it had been long enough, Carl looked his way and then stood. Mickey continued to walk past, even as Carl followed him the short distance and grabbed Mickey's shoulder. Mickey didn't know if they guy was just really fucking brave or reckless. Maybe both. Carl struck Mickey as the type to take a knife into a gun fight. Which was probably why Mickey actually turned around. Carl was the type of person Mickey was used to dealing with. And besides, it was too late to keep walking now. Everyone, including Ian was staring at him.

"What?" Mickey growled.

Carl frowned and let go of Mickey's shoulder. "Spare another Tracker?" Carl asked.

"Get your own," Mickey said bluntly. His eyes flicked up to the Gallagher crowd seated just behind Carl. He saw Ian's face grasping over every emotion, trying to settle for an appropriate one. Mickey's feet wanted to move, but the fact that Ian had stood up rooted Mickey in place.

Carl looked at Ian as the disheveled redhead walked over. Ian had his arms crossed and looked ill. He was wearing a jacket despite the summer heat, probably because of the chill in the waiting room. But his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and Mickey saw the goosebumps marring Ian's pale flesh. Ian stepped up and Carl furrowed his brow before finally coming to the silent conclusion that the two were not talking so long as Carl stood there. So he walked away and left the two standing in the middle of the waiting room, sans cigarette.

Ian held Mickey's gaze. He finally blinked. "What are you doing here?" he asked, and Mickey heard the hint of hope in Ian's voice.

"Don't get cocky," Mickey said gruffly. "I came to tell Mandy."

"That you're leaving," Ian said, more to himself, and finally looked down at the floor behind Mickey.

Mickey looked Ian over. It was uncanny because he could remember seeing Ian looking this bent out of shape only once before. And he kind of hated himself. But no, on second thought, he didn't. Yet he found himself speaking before he could bite his tongue. He told Ian he was coming back. And immediately he wished that he hadn't because as per-usual, Ian Gallagher took it the wrong way. He brightened up a bit. Or as much as one could while still distraught over other matters. Mickey watched Ian perk up and wanted to add in that he was only coming back to pack up his sister and her shit, and get the fuck out of Chicago again. To somewhere far enough away. To a complete change of scenery. But he didn't. Just kind of stood there, staring into Ian's hopeful green eyes. Eyes that Mickey kind of wanted to pluck out and squish. He hated that Ian looked somewhat at ease because of such a stupid thing as Mickey coming back. Yet Mickey wasn't surprised. Ian had suggested their friendship, not Mickey. And Mickey had almost known right off that it would never work because either he or Ian wouldn't let it. Both for opposite reasons. Ian wasn't able to settle. Mickey refused to let himself give in to that part of his being. And Mickey sighed because he knew he was going to disappoint Ian again. And if he was going to be honest with himself, part of Mickey really didn't want to. In a way. He knew it was fucked up, and that's why he tried not to think about it.

Ian uncrossed his arms and looked back at his family. Only Lip was looking over now. The older Gallagher boy's stare made Mickey's blood fester. If only Kevin hadn't pulled him off, Mickey seethed.

"Mickey?" Ian asked, getting the other man's attention.

Mickey looked back at Ian and frowned. He could leave because of Mandy. But she would be back any minute now and he could kick her goodbye and grab his shit and run. If only he hadn't chosen to stay for the x-ray. Mickey rubbed his bottom lip. "I don't feel like chit-chat," he said and turned around, walked to an empty seat not far away, plopped down with his legs straight out and sprawled. Ian of course followed him, not caring for Mickey's wishes.

When Ian sat down, he was straight in his chair, arms out on the rests and one leg crossed over the other, foot almost touching Mickey's knee. Mickey observed this for only a second. He thought it was a perfect example, how they sat, of just how different they were.

"Lip's—"

Mickey cut Ian off right there, saying, "I don't wanna hear about Lip." His teeth were tight.

"Okay," Ian said quickly.

Mickey wondered if Lip had even expressed to Ian just exactly what had been said. He crossed his arms and chewed the dead skin on his lips. Faggat. The last time that word had been uttered in Mickey's presence, it had been by his own mouth, spitting in the face of his father. He closed his eyes to the memory and then rubbed at his brows with one hand. When he swallowed he could almost taste the blood he'd nearly drowned in years ago. His thumb ran across the scar on his forehead. After he traced it, Mickey dropped his hand to his neck, feeling of the various small scars on one side. Constant reminders of the injuries and concussion Mickey had suffered. Of how much his father had obviously despised him.

"I never noticed that before," Ian suddenly said, pulling Mickey from his thoughts.

Mickey paused stroking the scar and looked at Ian.

"What happened?" Ian asked.

He guessed the scars must not be as noticeable as Mickey sometimes thought if Ian was only just now noticing them. After all, some of them had been pretty big. Maybe that shit he bought had actually faded them after all. "Nothing," he said.

"Nothing must have done a number," Ian said casually, then coughed into his fist, eyes turned upward.

Mickey almost smirked, recognizing Ian's nervous habit. He both liked and hated that he noticed such things. He shouldn't have. "Bar fight," Mickey lied, rubbing his lip unconsciously.

Ian, who had looked back at Mickey, cocked a brow and shrugged.

A while passed while Mickey hopped his knee, looking at one of the many clocks in the room, waiting on Mandy. Ian stayed put. After a few more moments, the nurse returned without Mandy. Mickey bolted upright in his seat, asking where the hell his sister was. He was irritated to find out that she had been sent for a CT scan, just as precaution. Mickey frowned at the nurses back as the old man walked out of the waiting room again. The bus ticket was only good for today and the last one leaving for Indianapolis departed soon. Mickey fingered the piece of paper in the pocket of his sweat pants. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Ian watching him.


	25. About-Face

He hadn't taken the bus. Ian knew Mickey hadn't taken the bus because his brooding ex had been in the waiting room until eight thirty and the station closed early, at eight, because it was Memorial Day. So unless he had high jacked a bus and taken off in it, Mickey was either upstairs with Mandy or hanging around somewhere in downtown Chicago. Ian flipped his phone around in his hands, frowning, thinking.

After Mickey left, Ian had regrouped with his family. He now sat beside of Frank because Debbie had insisted on going to get him. Fiona was now in recovery; they could see her in an hour. For the time being, Jimmy was with the newborn baby in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. They had all gone to see the baby. A baby with sandy hair and so frail looking that the sight of her had made everyone cry, even Carl. They all knew that baby wouldn't make it. So Ian sat beside of Frank, who smelled of stale urine, thick smoke, and booze. He sat there and counted the tiles on the floor, still playing with his phone. Lip sat across from them, Liam asleep on his lap. Debbie was outside with Carl, having a smoke from the pack Carl stole off a stranger earlier. Ian could see Lip watching him when he looked up through his lashes for a second. Frank dozed off beside of Ian. Finally, Ian exhaled loudly and rubbed at his head, sitting up properly. He stared back at his brother, and watched as Lip glanced at Frank, shaking his head.

"You ever wonder," Lip began, voice low so as not to wake Liam, "what would have happened if it had been Frank who ran off?"

Ian scoffed. "We'd all be dead by now," he said. "Monica would probably have blown the house up at some point while we all slept."

Lip's face remained blank. "Or shot us all in our sleep because she was off her medication," he added. "Guess Frank isn't so bad."

Ian looked over at his father and a small smirk touched his lips. "Nah," Ian said, "he's pretty awful."

Lip laughed and tried to scratch his eye. There was a long stretch of silence. Debbie and Carl came back in, only to leave again to fetch food. Lip placed Liam comfortably in the seat beside of him and wrapped the child up in Ian's discarded, thin jacket. Once he had made himself comfortable again, he motioned to Ian's phone, grabbing the redhead's attention. "You gonna call him back?" Lip asked, watching Ian's every move. "From another phone, of course," Lip added.

Ian stared down at his phone. "No," he said, shaking his head.

Lip nodded, asking, "You okay?"

Ian sighed and looked into Lip's face for a minute. Debated on lying. But he couldn't because, out of every sibling he had, Lip had always been the one who knew Ian best. So if Ian were to lie, Lip would just get the truth out of him anyway. Ian shook his head, answering a silent no. He didn't open his mouth because he was afraid to speak.

"I don't agree with either of them, you know," Lip said. "But I was kind of glad when Mickey broke your phone."

Ian looked back down at the phone in his hand. It was just a cheap, prepaid phone. He had never seen a need for anything fancy. Although now Ian wished that he had purchased the insurance on this one. He hoped he could somehow get his information off of it. Lip would probably figure a way. Ian studied the cracked screen and drifted into his thoughts.

_The phone rang while Mickey went out for a smoke. Ian answered it and had immediately wished he didn't. For one because Lip was following Mickey outside, which meant Mickey would probably beat the shit out of his brother and bounce. For two because the person calling him was Tate._

_Of course the phone call was to bitch at Ian, tell him to meet Tate at the airport. That this was Ian's last chance, so far as Tate was concerned. The ass hadn't even been aware of what was going on with Fiona. Of course not. He had stormed off. Ian had figured Tate was already on his way back to California. Apparently not._

_Still arguing on the phone, Ian had not hidden his surprise when both Mickey and Lip walked back into the waiting room in one piece. Had actually seemed civil. Even though Mickey was still staring at Lip's back with a small bit of hatred._

_He turned away from the two as they walked in his direction. Cupped a hand over his ear and continued to scowl into the phone, defending himself against Tate's ignorant tongue. Lip had been the one to approach him while Mickey just sat down and looked deep in thought._

Ian shook his thoughts. He looked over to Lip, who was yawning. "You and Mickey," Ian started, tucking the phone into his pocket, "did you work out your problem, whatever it was?"

"I guess," Lip said through his yawn. "I'm not dead, so. . ."

Ian sighed again and worried his lip. His head was foggy and he couldn't keep his train of thought. Tate. Sometimes Ian thought he had really fucked himself over by screwing Tate two years back.

" _Just stop. Are you even aware of what's going on here? My sister's heart gave out! She's in surgery!"_

Ian shake the look of Mickey's face as he had eavesdropped on Ian's conversation while Lip barked at Tate, trying to snatch Ian's phone. He wondered what must have been going through Mickey's head. It was getting harder to tell lately. Really, it was like Ian didn't know him at all. And he guessed that was reasonable, seeing as he and Mickey were living such different lives now. Had both matured into two very different people, molded by their surroundings and lifestyles.

Lip's sudden chuckle grabbed Ian's attention again. Ian looked at him, confused. Silently, cocking a brow and twisted his neck, he asked Lip to elaborate.

"I was just thinking," Lip said. "About what Mickey said to Tate. I sure wasn't expecting that."

Ian smirked and touched the phone through his jeans. He knew he should probably have been angry at Mickey for having stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. Yet he wasn't because never in his life would Ian have expected Mickey Milkovich to take up for him. And having judged the look on Mickey's face as he had finished his verbal assault earlier, Ian guess Mickey hadn't expected his own actions either. Had probably proceeded before putting thought behind any of it.

" _The next word that comes out of your mouth better be some brilliant fucking Mark Twain shit. Because it's definitely getting chiseled on your tombstone."_

Ian could still hear the gasps of innocent bystanders ringing in his ears, as well as the crash of his phone against the linoleum. Mickey had looked so torn when he picked up the broken piece of machinery and trust it back at Ian, telling the redhead to grow a pair. Ian allowed himself a moment to think of what Mickey's actions said. Total opposite of how Mickey had behaved after snatching Ian's phone away and breaking it. But that's what Mickey always did. Why did Mickey have to be so complicated? How the hell did the guy really feel? Mickey reminded Ian so much of Monica that it was quite frightening. Ian wondered if it was true that a man always falls in love with someone who reminds him of his mother in some way. Ian fidgeted in frustration. He messed with the small hole on the knee of his jeans, worrying it until it grew slightly larger. He guessed that it must be true. After all, every woman that Lip ended up with turned out to be a slut. Even Mandy. Although Ian actually liked her. And every guy that Ian fucked was moody and lacked any real self-confidence and responsibility when it came to things that mattered. Every one of them had harsh tongues and no sense of tact.

"What did you say to him? What started this?" Ian suddenly asked, staring hard at his brother.

Lip knitted his brow before realizing what Ian was talking about. He scratched his head and looked at Frank's feet. "I uh," he cleared his throat, "called him a faggat in front of Kevin and a few people at the bar."

Ian's eyes bulged. He blinked away his shock, getting his composer back. "Are you suicidal?" Ian flared.

Lip smiled and shrugged. "Guess I wanted to get a reaction out of him," he said.

They left it at that. Because Lip obviously had gotten a reaction out of Mickey. Ian just wasn't sure how to decipher it yet. On the one hand, Mickey had tried to skip town. On the other, he had forgone that, at least temporarily, and was acting as if nothing had happened. Sort of. Had done a total about-face. So far as Ian could tell, anyway. He wondered what tomorrow would bring.


	26. Throttle

It was about midnight when Mickey woke up from his nap in Mandy's room. Though not usually the type for naps, Mickey had been particularly exhausted all day from stress and lack of sleep. Thus he had fallen asleep after arguing with Mandy and turning on Whammy. Now, waking up and about to piss like a race horse, Mickey saw that his sister was out cold. He stood, stepping over his bag, and popped into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door because Mandy was still snoring. He didn't bother lifting the lid, either, since Mandy didn't use this bathroom anyway. She had her bags for that. Mickey shivered in disgust. His poor fucking sister. Zipping up, Mickey rolled around in his hate for their upbringing a minute more before letting it go and walking outside for a smoke.

His stomach growled as he stepped out into the cool summer night. Mickey puffed his cigarette and scratched his stomach under his black tank. He rested a hand in his pocket and looked up at the sky. It was clear night, and if it hadn't been for the lights, Mickey figured he would have kept looking up. Space had always fascinated him, but it did no good looking at the stars when the city was hell bent on making you work for it. He instead turned his attention back to the hospital, looking up once more to where he thought Mandy's window was. He was pretty sure he saw a man's shadow moving around as a dim light come on.

Mickey scoffed to himself and turned away from the window, taking a deep drag from his cigarette and closing one eye from the sting of the smoke. "Fucking coward," he said to himself of the person in his sister's room. Then let out his breath. He watched the smoke leave him, then flicked away his butt. Really, he figured Lip wasn't a coward. Not honestly. The guy was just smart enough to know when to leave Mickey alone to stew and get over it. And Mickey guessed he would just get over it. He was leaving soon anyway.

He coughed into his fist and looked around parking lot and street beyond. He watched as the cars cruised on and a handful of people roamed. Listened to the sirens in the distance. Then he tuned everything out and decided to take a walk around the hospital campus. He needed something to do now that he had completely fucked over his sleeping schedule. Not that he had had much of one. Mickey's sleeping habits had always been kind of crazy. Thee campus was huge and oddly spread out. He went around back, to the Emergency entrance, and watched paramedics fight for a place through their doorway, pushing gurneys. When he was done with that, Mickey marched on, nearing the garage. He stopped walking for only a second to keen his ears. He thought he heard arguing on the first level of the parking garage. A heated argument, from what he could tell. Mickey walked towards the squabble, hoping to watch someone get their skull knocked in for his amusement.

He neared the voices, now able to almost make out what was being said. Something about one of them being insufferable. He stopped walking when he stepped behind a black van and peered through the window, now able to recognize one of the voices. And as usual, Mickey instant regretted his choice. Headlights eased by the two men standing near an obvious rental car, having at it. Mickey was about to turn away, but stopped when the lights moved over the two to show Tate shove at Ian. He wasn't about to go over and play some kind of dumbass hero, so Mickey just hung back and watched, curious to see if Ian would fight the same with Tate as he did when taking a punch from Mickey. Wondered if it would even go that far at all. A twinge of jealousy struck him, but Mickey pushed it down because it made him sick to think like that.

Ian jumped back from Tate when the blonde spat at him.

"You have only a month before you go back, Ian," Tate hissed. "A month. This is how you choose to spend it?"

Ian looked at Tate, mouth a gape and eyes full of a rage that Mickey could see shinning in the darkness. "So I should skip out on my sister, who almost died, by the way," Ian barked, "to follow you back into California. What are we supposed to do when we get back, Tate?" He shook his head. "Pretend we're happy? Because I don't know about you, but I'm fucking miserable!"

"Because you let yourself be!" Tate screamed.

Ian rubbed between his eyes. "No, I'm miserable," he began, "because I hate everything going on in my life right now."

Tate sneered. "What's so bad about your life?" he spat. "Everyone has some problem attacking them. You just allow yours to over-take you!"

Finally Ian stepped close to Tate, face hard. Tate flinched and backed up against his rental car, palms flat. He stared at Ian, shaken.

"I will knock your head in," Ian growled low.

Tate frowned, gaining some resolve. "You won't do a damn thing," he said.

"You want to try me?" Ian asked, pressing his hands on both sides of the car near Tate's head.

Tate smiled bitterly then, as more headlights went past. He shook his head and closed his eyes. "Your life is nothing but better," he began. Mickey could barely hear him, as Tate was whispering. "But you seem to want to crawl back into this shithole you call a home. This disaster which you call family. " He opened his eyes and put his face close to Ian's, their foreheads practically touching. "I don't think know what love is, sometimes," he snarled.

Ian laughed out, "And you do? You, who fucks anything that moves? Oh! Aside from me, that is!"

Tate's upper lip twitched and he pushed Ian away from him. "Do you honestly think I don't know you have fucked around on me? I could practically smell him on you when you came back to the hotel!"

Mickey stiffened as he heard that. Tate's mention of Mickey and Ian's first sit down upon seeing one another again twisted at Mickey's gut. His anger flared. Mostly because, actually, no Ian hadn't fucked him then; Ian had fucked Mickey later, after Tate ran off. Mickey didn't want to think about it, but couldn't stop himself, either. Fighting with himself internally was like watching a train wreck. Even he had to admit. Balling up his fist, Mickey punched the van. He felt as though he would explode if he didn't. Even if it meant that he had given himself away. He also didn't like people accusing him of the wrong thing. Mickey heard but did not see the couple halt their fight and look his way. He had turned around, leaned against the van. Licking his mouth and rubbing his lip, Mickey shrugged to himself. Fuck it.

Mickey laughed and smiled, shaking his head at himself for what he was about to do. Too late to turn back now.

"He didn't fuck me then, you stupid shit," Mickey husked and stepped out from behind the van. He smiled wickedly at Tate and Ian's stunned reactions. "He fucked me after you went away." And it was odd, Mickey thought. Odd and reminiscent, the next words that fell from his diarrhea mouth. He held his toothy grin and walked over, scratched at his face, and said, "He's good, isn't he. Bet you miss that."

Tate gaped, seething with rage, and took a shot at Mickey. Ian stood tense, unbelieving. Mickey burst into laughter at the weak punch, and straightened out his collar before licking the blood from his lip and spitting it back into Tate's face, still laughing. Tate gasped and wiped the spit from his face.

Finally Ian came out of his stupor and put his hands out, face wide and freaked. "Tate!" he said. "Just drop it!"

Tate whirled around and scoffed. "Are you defending him  _again_?" he blurted.

Again. Mickey wasn't sure how he felt about that. He didn't need defending.

"Aye!" Mickey yelled. "Fuck off, Ian." He turned his attention to Tate and cocked his head. "I don't like when people assume shit about me," he said. "And I especially don't like when little pricks like you think you can go around running your fucking pussy-ass mouth, expecting that no one's going to just give you what you have coming."

"And what's that?" Tate snapped, hands on his hips.

Mickey grinned as headlights came their way yet again. This time accompanied by flashes of blue and red. Ian's eyes grew even wider, if it was possible, and he began yelling at the two to stop. Too late. Mickey heard the policeman speaking through his gadget for the three men to back away from one another. He probably thought this was a drug deal or something, given the neighborhood. So Mickey acted fast, before the cop got out. Tate never saw it coming, probably because he hadn't known Mickey was insane enough to enact violence in front of an officer. Mickey didn't give a fuck about the law, though, as Tate soon discovered when Mickey's forehead cracked hard against his nose. Blood spilled everywhere and Tate fell back against the rental car, screaming. The policeman quickly exited his car. Ian tried to stop him, but the officer rushed past. Mickey laughed and pulled the tissue in his pocket, which had used to blow his nose earlier. He threw it down to Tate and then licked the corner of his mouth. "Might wanna wipe yourself off," he said as the officer came at him. "You're bleeding a little." Before the words left him completely, Mickey found himself on the pavement, wind knocked out of him.


	27. Hateful

Part Three: Break Away

Mickey sat in a hard chair across from the officer who had arrested him. He was cuffed and staring hard at the black man's back in amusement. Funny that he should end up in jail rather than on the bus he had paid one hundred dollars to board. He wondered how long he would be stuck here if Tate chose to press charges. Mickey's action had definitely been simple assault. So unless the police attempted to make the fight out as intent to kill, which it obviously hadn't been, Mickey figured he was probably looking at just a couple of weeks. Unless the station here was smart enough to send in for a fax of his record in Indianapolis. Here, the only things on his record were assault on an officer, which he had served, and attempted robbery, which he had also served out. Both juvenile offenses that would easily be overlooked. What was on his record in Indianapolis on the other hand would probably fuel fire for an attempt at reckless endangerment charges. Mickey looked away, face bored and sarcastic, wetted his lips, and then smiled.

"How long you gonna keep me tied to this chair like a fucking dog?" he asked the officers before him. "If I wag my tail nice and pretty, are you going to let me loose?"

The policeman, who had turned briefly, rolled his eyes and went back to filling out the report.

Mickey chuckled. "Oh, come on!" he baited. "How about if I play dead? Roll over?" When he got no reaction, he grinned to himself and licked his lips, shaking his head in amusement. "I can fetch like no one's business," he commented.

Finally the officer sighed and slammed his hands and the pen down. Without turning, he told Mickey to shut his trap before he tacked on another charge.

Mickey hushed, figuring he had played enough. He sniffed and suppressed his laughter, still grinning. An hour later he was booked and sitting in a cell. The man in the cell next to Mickey's kept groaning about having a broken wrist. The officer seated at a desk near them looked annoyed, but appeared to be giving her best shot at not listening to the complaining. Mickey watched her scribble and sat back on the padded bench. Eventually he fell asleep. And pretty much he continued about doing nothing inside his cell for the next four days. On his fourth day in, the last day of May, Mickey took a nap mid-day because what the hell else was there to do in the joint. However, he was awakened some short time later by the female officer with pig face. She slid his bars to the side as Mickey sat up on the bench, rubbing his eyes with the palms of both hands. He groaned and as he came to a full sit, head hanging as he tried to wake up fully. He massaged the back of his neck and looked up after a minute and a few yawns later. The officer stared down at him, a plastic bag with his belongings inside trust forward. Mickey stood up and grabbed it.

"Kicking me out, finally?" he chided at her and snatched the bag.

"Your friend," the woman said, thumbing over her shoulder, "posted your bail."

Mickey gazed past her broad shoulders and raised his brows. She moved aside and walked him out of the cage, locking the door behind her. Mickey stood there and listened as the officer informed him of his court date tomorrow and handed him a pink slip of paper with the time and room written on it. Without a word, Mickey walked away from her towards the tall man standing by the door. He walked by the string of opened windows, and noted that it was extra sunny, so he hadn't been asleep long. Looking confused, Mickey stepped up beside of his so-called friend and crossed his arms, the bag against his chest. "The fuck  _you_ bail me out for?" he asked, lifting his chin at the other man. He didn't bother asking how the man had known he was in here, figuring that Ian had blabbed.

Kevin laughed, shaking his head with his hands in his pockets. Bouncing on his feet as he chuckled, the bartender reached out and clapped a startled Mickey on the shoulder. "Well at first I didn't even think on it," he said, and then joked, "but I'll be honest, it's been kind of uneventful without your optimism filling the bar. Without you joyous laughter."

Mickey smirked and uncrossed his arms, following Kevin out and down the stairs. Once outside, Mickey rubbed his knuckles and stood still while Kevin kept walking.

Kevin turned around, realizing he wasn't being followed and cocked a confused look. "You coming or what?" he asked. He stared at Mickey expectantly, and when the younger man didn't answer, Kevin pulled a face. "Well you can't skip town now," Kevin said condescending, rolling his eyes, like he knew what Mickey must be thinking. It pissed Mickey off. "You do and they'll just bring you in under worse charges."

Mickey scowled because he knew Kevin was right. And Mickey's skin burned to get back to Indianapolis. So he supposed that he may as well stick around through tomorrow. Find out if Tate was pressing charges. If he was, then Mickey was definitely going to skip town. If he wasn't, Mickey was going to stroll into the courtroom and have a laugh. He spit on the sidewalk and began emptying out the plastic bag. Wordlessly, he stuffed his wallet into his pocket and tossed the packets of gum and cigarettes in there with it.

"You know I'm right," Kevin sang. "So just keep following, Nancy."

Mickey's face dropped and he bared his teeth. "What did you just call me?" he snarled.

And Kevin chuckled, ran a hand through his early greying hair. "Nancy," he clarified. "Well?" he continued, arms out in a hurrying along jester, "are you going to stand there and become one with the wind, or are you going to get some decent food?"

This motherfucker was just begging to get his teeth knocked out. Nancy? What the fuck was that, even? Mickey supposed it was Kevin's idea of pocking fun at his expense over Lip's display during Mickey's last night at work.

"I'm not a god damned queer," Mickey bit.

Kevin held his hands up in front of him, surrendering. "Hey, man, I don't care how you take it. Just so it's not with my Veronica," he said calmly.

Mickey faltered. He looked Kevin over and after a while of sneering and such, resigned to a light frown. "Whatever," he muttered.

An hour later he was leaving McDonald's stuffed full of sausage biscuits and Pepsi. Kevin had stayed to eat with him. They had sat in mostly silence, but Mickey had eventually thanked Kevin, sort of, for bailing him out of holding. Before they parted ways, Mickey flat out made no qualms and just asked Kevin if he knew Tate was pressing charges. He knew that Kevin was in the loop now anyway, so there was no use in beating around the bush.

"He's not," Kevin said, lighting up a cigarette once outside.

"Good," Mickey said, taking Kevin's lighter and puffing on his own cancer stick. He blew out his first inhalation and said through it, "Because that guy doesn't want on my bad side any more than he already is."

Kevin scoffed. "You broke his nose all to hell," he smirked.

"Even better."

And so they parted way with Mickey's words hanging in the air. Mickey went from the McDonalds straight to the hospital. It was just before eleven and Mandy was either already released or about to be. He walked in and asked the receptionist at the front desk to tell him if Mandy was still admitted. She was, and Mickey didn't thank the woman as he past and into the elevator. When he got to the second floor, he glanced at the door across from his sisters. Fiona had obviously been moved elsewhere, as an elderly woman was now laying in the bed, moaning and hacking up a storm, door wide open so that she could force the rest of the floor to suffer along with her. Mickey figured Mandy must be going insane from the racket. He opened her door and snapped his head back, squinting a little at the scene before him.

Ian looked over his shoulder as he helped Mandy into her wheelchair. His green eyes went wide and he wiggled them over Mickey's being fast. "You're out?" he asked, surprised. "And still here?"

Mickey crossed his arms and stayed put, nodding in confirmation. "Court tomorrow," he commented curtly.

Mandy peered around Ian, looking depressed. "Hey, Mickey," she greeted. "Guess I'm a free woman today," she added, bitter.

After the hospital released Mandy with instruction on how to care for her given to Mickey, he and Ian pushed her back to the Alibi Room. Not much was said between the three on the way there. Mandy seemed far too down in the dumps, understandably so, to do much but pout. Ian kept stealing awkward glances at Mickey. And Mickey wanted to curl into a ball and die. He was going fucking insane, he just knew. All sense of boarders and control were coming to a crash all around him. His sex life. His reality. His knowledge of happenings in Indianapolis. His self-hatred. Mickey couldn't even glance Ian's way. Wouldn't let himself. Only when they stopped in front of the front entrance, did Mandy finally break the silence.

She sighed heavy and hit the arm of her chair, scowling. "How the fuck," she asked, whirling her head around to Mickey, "are you getting me up there?" And she pointed above them, to where Mickey had informed her that he was temporarily living.

"I don't know," Mickey breathed, defeated. Why was this happening to him? Was this the universe's cruel way of getting back at him?

Ian looked across both of them, then patted the wheelchair handles confidently. "Calm down," he said to Mandy. "We'll figure it out. Even if I have to carry you."

"Yeah, because that's dignified," Mandy pouted, crossing her arms. "Not happening."

Mickey frowned at his sister. "You want to fucking crawl, then?" he snapped, his temper showing all over his face.

Ian knitted his brow and frowned in Mickey's direction, glaring. "Mickey," he warned, "shut up."

"Fuck you," Mickey said, finally looking at the redhead. "My sister's not one for coddling."

Ian rolled his eyes. "No one's coddling her. But you can't be so insensitive," he said.

Bickering as they were, it was a miracle the two men helped Mandy upstairs after a while. Mandy had nearly cried when she found out that the bar was crowded. Mickey had concealed the fact that he was holding his sister's hand from Ian, as Ian carried Mandy up the stairs.

His place was a total wreck. Mickey watched as Mandy looked around, frowning and asking how she was supposed to push herself around in such a pigsty. Ian stifled a laugh as Mickey threw the stuff to the sides, creating a pathway, then announcing that, there, she could fucking figure it out from here. He wasn't able, Mickey growled, turning from his sister, to deal with such a fucking burden.

"Burden?" Mandy hacked. "You son-of-a-bitch!"

Mickey thumbed his mouth. "She's your mother, too," he quipped the same time that Ian opened his mouth, rubbing Mandy's shoulder and telling her that Mickey didn't mean what he'd said about her being a burden.

"Yes I did," Mickey barked, staring holes through Ian's head. "I can't," he shook his head and pulled at his hair before storming off into the kitchen, where he continued by saying, "I can't deal with you being a fucking cripple that I have to look after until you kill over."

Mandy had cried then. Had actually cried, and this time because of him. Mickey stood over his sink, ready to puke. He didn't mean what he was saying, but his words were getting away from him. It was like he couldn't stop, even though part of him was telling his worse half how much he would regret this later. So he kept dishing out bullshit, making Mandy cry worse, and finally setting Ian off the deep end.

At one point, as Ian got in front of Mickey, trying to stop the verbal bashing, Mickey shoved the redhead and looked his sister dead in the face. He said, face a mixture of pre-regret, deep sadness, and irrationality, "You just better hope to Christ someone comes along to take you off my hands, since I don't know who the fuck will. Not now." He gestured down at her lower half and shook his head. "You think Lip's going to stick around with half of you numbed up? Shit, the one thing you're good at, and you can't even do that, now."

He never saw the kick coming. But sure as shit anticipated the rest of the blows as Ian tackled him and they threw one another against walls in an attempt to gain control. Mandy was both crying and screaming as the fight got completely out of hand. It went on for a while, mickey having smashed an ashtray against Ian's cheek. Finally, just as Ian had Mickey down, Mandy screamed for another reason. Two thumps, angry and loud, and then a crack and crash as Mickey's door to downstairs fell in, chipped all to hell. He stared wide-eyed over Ian's shoulder at Kevin as the third wheel stomped in and struggled to pull Ian off of Mickey.


	28. Close Quarters

"What the fuck!" Kevin bellowed, grabbing hold of Ian's shoulders and pulling hard, legs spread out as a means to grip himself down.

Mandy sat blubbering in the middle of the chaos. Frantic, devastated, and angry rolled into one.

When Kevin pulled at Ian, the redhead bucked backward and knocked him off. Kevin hit his ass hard on the floor and yelped, rubbing his lower back. Mickey took the advantage and threw himself at Ian, grabbing his once lover by the arm and twisting him around. Ian growled at the same time he screamed. Before he could sacrifice pulling his arm out of place to turn the tables on Mickey, Mickey threw his other arm around Ian and held on for dear life and Ian bucked his body like a bull. Ian Gallagher was fucking built; Mickey had to hand it to him. Mickey was no fucking chump, either, so he figured it said a lot that Ian had actually managed to lift Mickey off the ground even just a little and slam against the bathroom door.

"Jesus!" Kevin screamed from the floor as Mandy wheeled over to his side and tried to help him up. "What the hell is the matter with those two?"

Mandy just shook her head, trying to hold in what bit of tears and sobs remained. Kevin clumsily climbed to his feet.

When they hit the bathroom door, it flew open and Ian and Mickey basically tumbled in, Mickey face down on the floor and Ian on top of him. They flipped over fast, ready to have at it still, but both jerked their faces toward the bathroom entrance as the door slammed. Mickey was the first to react. He jumped to his feet, quite literally, and ran to the door, jiggling the knob. "Fuck!" he spat, slamming his hand against the door and snarling. "Kevin, open this door, god damn it, or I swear to Christ!"

Ian sat in front of the sink, touching his fucked up cheek and catching his breath, knees bent upward. He turned to glare at Mickey. "Just fucking open it yourself," he hissed.

Mickey whirled on him. "Yeah, it's fucking locked from their side, you ass," he said rudely. "Dumbass who owned this place had double sided locks put on. Paranoid freak," he said, then turned back to the door, yelling again.

Ian sighed and hugged his knees.

"What the fuck, Ball?" Mickey growled, then kicked the door. He thought to kick it in, but for one reason or another didn't, just slid down the frame so that one knee was raised and he could prop his elbow on it to hold his forehead. "Damn it!" Mickey yelled again, this time banging his fist backward into the door. After a few minutes of brooding, he put his ear to the door and listened to his sister's voice, telling Kevin just to leave them in there to work it out. They would either kill each other or work it out, she sniffled. "God, Mandy!" Mickey hissed. "Stay out of it!"

"Fuck you!" she responded.

"Fuck you!" Mickey thundered back.

"Fuck  _you_!" Mandy came back again, louder this time.

Mickey grinded his teeth and rubbed his head. "Cunt!" he finally yelled with a little less force, still looking at his feet. Half-hearted now.

Ian smirked, and Mickey jerked his head up, eyes scary and wide. "What's funny?" he asked, deadly.

Ian just continued to chuckled to himself, now resting his crown against the sink. He shook his head, wincing at the pain he probably felt in his cheek. Mickey stared at the black bruise already forming.

"I got pain killers in the medicine cabinet," Mickey commented haphazardly, pointing a lazy hand upward.

"It's fine," Ian said. "I've had worse."

Mickey raised his brows and sighed, letting his raised leg fall flat with the other. He folded his hands in his lap and licked his bleeding lips.

"How long do you think they'll leave us in here?" Ian asked, studying Mickey.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Do I know?" he answered sarcastically, making a face.

"You shouldn't have said that to her," Ian suddenly said, looking at his bloody hands.

"Mandy's fine. She's a big girl," Mickey husked, eyes somewhat lidded out of exhaustion from the fight.

Moments passed where neither man spoke. Only the drip in the sink was noise enough to keep them from simply hearing one another breathe. Finally, Ian pulled off his shoes. Mickey frowned at him, asking what the heck was doing. Ian smiled and said they might as well get comfortable. A few seconds later, Mickey followed suit and tossed his roughed up shoes into the bathtub. Ian simply sat his beside the toilet as Mickey's soared past his red head. When Ian ducked and cursed, Mickey snickered.

"So you're fine with having your face smashed by an ashtray and my fist," he said, chill, "but be damned if a shoe flies your way."

Ian looked over and grinned. "Yeah well, yours fucking reek," he laughed.

Mickey licked the corner of his mouth, still tasting blood. He crossed his legs under him and pulled out the smashed box of cigarettes from his pocket. He shook them at Ian as he pulled one out and snapped it in half, salvaging what he could. When he failed, aggravated, he threw the pack across the room. "See that," he said. "Next time, watch what you're doing."

Ian snorted. "You broke my watch, which is worth more" he said, flicking the one on his wrist, then fingering the shatter. "Good thing I only got it at Walmart. I'd have to ask you to pay me back otherwise."

They both laughed as Mickey lit his cigarette. "Well you'd have to fucking wait a while," Mickey finally said, looking away from Ian when he felt an unwanted stir. Ian, still smiling, commented on Mickey's lack of funds or will to pay off debts owed. Said Mickey would just have to steal him a new one. Mickey's face drew a neutral blank at the remark. He studied his bathtub, not looking at Ian still. And rubbed his thumb across his sore bottom lip. Could practically feel Ian's eyes digging through him. Mickey hated when people judged him too quickly. Even Ian Gallagher, who Mickey usually let get away with far too much. Grinding his teeth again, Mickey felt his jaw pop. He winced and opened his mouth a few times to stretch it. After rubbing away the soreness, Mickey Finally looked at Ian. His eyes tried to be hard, but Mickey wondered if Ian could see the hurt buried deep inside them. He hoped not. Mickey hated showing weakness. "Hey, fuck you, Firecrotch," he said. "If I ever get my ass back to Indianapolis, I won't want for much." He hated that he felt the need to prove himself. And to Ian of all people. So he added, "Just saying." As if that helped.

Ian's eyes softened as he studied Mickey, clearly suddenly struck by something. And at first Mickey wasn't sure what, until he realized his slip of the tongue. However, not wanting to bring more attention to it, Mickey just shrugged it off and acted as though he had said nothing. Hoped Ian wouldn't actually bring it up.

"Mickey," Ian addressed, looking at Mickey's neck now, face still relaxed, eyes suddenly soft, like they knew something Mickey didn't. He scooted directly beside of Mickey. Mickey wanted this to stop. "I won't ask again if you shoot me down, but," Ian paused, tearing his eyes away from the scars Mickey knew the redhead must have been looking at, "what's waiting for you in Indianapolis?"

Mickey stared at Ian, then blinked away, mouth relaxed into a natural frown. "Money," Mickey said, as if it was obvious.

"How much?" Ian asked. "Is it blood money?"

Mickey sucked on his bottom lip as the bleeding stopped, and counted the rips in his shower curtain. "Not your concern," Mickey said. But after Ian nodded, dropping the subject, Mickey found himself actually wanting to share a little of his information. Relieve some of his stress. Definitely not all of it, though. He cleared his throat and let go of his lip. "One hundred grand," he said, flat. "Maybe more if I play my hand right."

Ian blinked, did a double take. "How?" he asked, stunned.

Mickey shrugged. "I told you the other day what I do," he said.

"So it is blood money," Ian said, confirming to himself. Looking sick.

Mickey glanced over from the side and his frown deepened. "Not exactly," he snapped. There were moments of silence before Mickey continued. "I have about twelve hundred grams of black tar heroin stashed away in my storage unit," he admitted, rubbing his face, unashamed. Mostly. He wasn't sure which Ian would react less unfavorably too: that Mickey had murdered people or the fact that Mickey had stolen hard drugs and was planning on selling them.

Ian's eyes grew wide and he glared hard at Mickey. "Mick. . ." he trailed.

"Hey!" Mickey quipped, glaring back just as intense, "don't fucking look down your nose at me! You don't know fuck all! I've never touched that shit." He looked away, lips pursed and crossing his arms. "I've been shaving some off every time I make a drop or pick up," he finished.

Ian gaped his mouth a little and shook his head in disbelief. Mickey watched his reaction and felt his stomach tighten. Why? He didn't want to care what this fucker thought.

"What if," Ian swallowed, almost as if he felt he must be dreaming, "what if who you're working for finds out, Mickey?"

And Mickey decided that was where he was going to end his sharing. Ian didn't need to know that Mickey had thought maybe his employer found out back in February. That Mandy had been crippled because of Mickey's life choices. "They won't," Mickey lied, looking away from Ian again, sitting on his hands because he didn't want to give himself away.

Ian sighed heavily and closed his eyes; head tilted back, hands cupped around his knees again. It took him a minute to say, "I guess you couldn't ever be bothered to get a real career. I don't know what I expected."

Mickey felt his chest tighten in the dense silence. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. His mouth twisted up like he had sucked a lemon. "At least I like what I do," he growled, insinuating. He knew he had hit hard when he saw Ian flinch. Mickey hadn't been around, had only heard Mandy mention Ian's career in the Marines once or twice. But he had only needed to be around Ian for a few hours one day a few weeks ago. Just long enough to hear Ian make one mistake of a comment. And Mickey instantly knew Ian regretted the Marines and couldn't wait to not reenlist.

But Ian swallowed his hurt pride and narrowed his eyes at Mickey. "Do you?" he challenged.

And no. Not really. Mickey was kinda of repulsed by what he had to do in order to get by, so that he didn't have to flip burgers. But Mickey wasn't about to come clean now. Instead he just rolled his eyes and propped his knee up, holding his chin between tightened fingers. His heart rate flared.

"I have to say, though," Ian unexpectedly chuckled. He threw Mickey off guard. "It's fucking clever. I mean, if all of your, I'm assuming, hard work actually pans out."

Mickey scowled. "Are you saying I'm too fucking stupid to pull it off?" he barreled. Ian jerked his head up and looked at Mickey, eyes drooping. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Mickey cut him off, telling the redhead that if he felt that way, Ian could just, "Kiss off!" he barked.

And they sat there staring at each other for what seemed quite a while, but was honestly only a second at best. Mickey jerked away when Ian moved fast, coiling around Mickey and pressing their lips together. But because of their close quarters, he was basically pinned. Ian's hand snaked through Mickey's gelled hair, gripping. Mickey felt a piece snap, probably off completely given the amounts of new and old gel in his hair. Slow and gentle, Ian's tongue ran across Mickey's top lip, and Mickey twisted, pushing against Ian's chest, trying to free himself. Yet Mickey moaned at the same time. His dick fought against his wishes and pitched a tent slowly in his pants. Ian's other hand, the one not tugging his hair, slid down Mickey's face and came to rest on his neck, but not before tickling him as it trailed. Ian stroked Mickey's collar bone, even as Mickey struggled. But Mickey resolve was giving way. They could both feel it. Both knew it was going to happen eventually. Finally, Mickey's brain shut down. He stopped pushing against Ian's chest and instead balled his fists up in the material, jerking Ian closer. Ian gasped into his mouth at the sudden motion, but smiled into it just as quickly, rasping out a laugh.

Their first kiss didn't last long. And once they pulled away, Mickey immediately came to himself and wiped his mouth, not frowning, but confused. Breathing heavy as he tried to maintain it. "The hell just happened?" he growled. "Did you just fucking kiss me?"

Ian shrugged, giving Mickey his winning grin, brows up and eyes heavily lidded. His arousal apparent. "You asked for it," Ian said, sly.

"I didn't fucking mean that literally, Gallagher," Mickey said, unconsciously licking his lips and touching his neck.

"Well it's what you got," Ian chuckled, watching Mickey's hand. "Didn't hear you complaining."

Mickey frowned. "Because trying to shove you off me doesn't count, right?" he bit.

"Not when your dick's stabbing me in the knee," Ian countered, casual, smirking.

"I ought to rip your tongue outta your head," Mickey hissed. "The hell? You kiss like a fucking chick," he added.

Ian rolled his eyes. "Kiss a lot of those, do you?" he chided.

Mickey flipped him off and stood up, moving to the wall furthest away from Ian. Which wasn't far, unfortunately, given the square footage of his bathroom. He couldn't tare his eyes off of Ian, though Mickey tried. But when his phone suddenly rang, Mickey had no trouble looking up from Ian and glaring, utterly baffled, at the door.

"What?" Ian asked, cocking his head. "It's just your phone."

Mickey shook his head, his eyes hard. "Only the hospital and Kevin have this number," he said, going towards the now opening door.

Ian stood as the door opened, turned around to face Kevin, who held the receiver in his hand. "It's probably just a wrong number," Ian said, looking over his shoulder to Mickey.

And Mickey fucking hoped so. Would have believed it, too, if not for the knowledge that he had been very stupid a few nights ago. Very fucking stupid, to have used the landline to call Brenda. A colossal fuck up. Because Brenda was his boss's fucking cousin. And the bitch didn't know how to keep a god damned secret since she was fucked up all the time on Julio's personal stash.


	29. Said the Lion

Kevin stood awkwardly in the doorway trying to look hard and threatening as Mickey stepped forward and yanked the phone from his hand. Mickey's hand clasped over the duct taped battery and he pressed the receiver to his ear, walking away from everyone and into the kitchen as he answered. Even his voice was confused as he asked who the fuck it was. Kevin had said two words when he gave Mickey the phone. Some guy. Definitely not the hospital. Certainly not Kevin. So who? The other end of the line was quiet and at first Mickey thought maybe the person had hung up. But when he was about to follow suite, the stranger spoke. And as it would happen, the voice on the other line was one Mickey could never forget, as he had grown up with it ringing in his ear his entire life.

"Hey, little brother," the man on the other end greeted. Mickey could hear the grin in that too deep voice.

"Tony," Mickey said, keeping his voice at a whisper. Thankfully everyone had the sense to leave him alone in the kitchen. "How did you get this number?" And really, how? Tony had evaded prison after his last parole. Had skipped the state and was on the lamb, running from life in prison. Wanted for murder. No one had heard from Tony in years. Not since Tony had walked in on Mandy knocking their father unconscious. Not since finding out Mickey was gay. Not since Mickey had given him some random kid from school's name, so that Tony would beat death into the wrong fucking guy. Tony hadn't reacted as Terry had. Tony had been in more of a rage about blaming the fucker who stuck his dick in Mickey's mouth. Such was Tony's way. Such was what had landed Tony on the lamb in the first place. Poor fucking kid from school probably never knew why he was being killed as Tony beat him with a chain.

Tony ignored Mickey's question and replaced it with one of his own. "How does your faggaty ass know my guy down here in Reno?" he asked.

"Reno?" Mickey asked, sincerely confused. "I don't know anyone from Reno."

"Got a guy down there says he knows you," Tony probed. "Says he's been watching you do some work for his brother, Julio. You know Julio?"

Mickey's heart flipped and restarted. His blood ran cold. "No," Mickey lied, unsure of his brother's intention. "The fuck are you on about?"

"How about," Tony began, "we skip the part where you pretend you don't really know why I'm calling?"

Mickey could barely breathe. His heart pounded in his ears. The only thought running through his mind: why hadn't he just taken the time to get his drunken ass to a payphone the other night? He gripped the edge of his cluttered table, face green.

"Well," Tony sighed, "if you don't wanna talk, Little Mickey Mouse, I'm sure I can get this bitch," and as he said the words, a woman's muffled scream rang out, "to let me in on the location of all that stolen smack."

Realizing he had been holding his breath, Mickey let it out and sat down in a kitchen chair. He pulled it out loudly, scratching the tile. He turned to face the archway, watching intensely for someone to walk his way. "Let's skip the part," Mickey said, clenching and unclenching his fist, "where you feed me a bunch of bullshit. How the fuck did you really find me?"

Tony chuckled. "Well, I might have lied some," he said. "My guy's not really Julio's brother." He paused and Mickey could hear Brenda whimpering in the background. Finally, Tony sniffed hard and licked his teeth loudly. "Hey, you remember that kid you were in a stall with?"

"What?"

"That kid, Marcus," Tony said, casual, "well after he helped you out finding a job down here in Indianapolis, he ran off to Reno."

Mickey worried his lip.

"I gotta say, Mickey," Tony laughed, "he wasn't too happy when he got a call from Julio a few months back about you stabbing them in the back. Made Marcus look bad for recommending you. He also wasn't too happy when he found out you were fucking his ex. Something about the idea of a faggat giving her aids really pissed him off."

First off, Mickey was floored. Second off, he was offended because he didn't aids. Third, Marcus was one to fucking talk. Mickey scowled. "Guess he forgot to mention she was his ex when he was sucking me off," Mickey growled. "And I guess he skipped over telling  _you_  he likes it up the ass." Tony was grinding his teeth, Mickey could hear it if only barely. "Just let her go," Mickey said.

Tony barked a laugh, saying, "Who, the whore? Nah, she's content."

Mickey seriously doubted that, seeing as he could hear Brenda crying.

"So listen, Mickey," Tony cleared his throat, "I'll just be honest with you. We don't want any more trouble to stir up than it has too. We just want your stolen stash, and we'll be out of your hair."

Fuck that. Mickey had worked too hard for that stash of heroin. Had too many plans, and now that Mandy was how she was, he needed to sell that shit more than ever. So he told Tony to go fuck himself.

Tony tisked. "You're pretty brave, aren't you, fucker?" he said. "You know, when we got here, this bitch was already roughed up pretty bad. Your place is torn all to hell, too. I'd say Marcus and I aren't the only ones who came snooping."

Mickey bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, calm him some.

"I think Julio thought you were dead when he called Marcus up," Tony says. "It'd would a shame if someone told him you weren't."

Mickey opened his mouth to scream into the receiver, but Tony had already hung up. All Mickey had was a dial tone. He threw the phone across the room, cursing thunderously, and watched it shatter. Not two second later, Ian walked hesitantly into the kitchen, frowning, concerned.

"Who was that?" Ian asked.

Mickey wiped the trickle of blood from his lip to his chin. He looked away from Ian and pressed his palms flat against the table. "Iggy," he lied. "Needs me to do him a favor."

Ian furrowed his brow as Mandy wheeled herself up beside of him, Kevin following close behind. Mickey hated having an audience when he was trying to compose himself. He hated having an audience period. Mandy was the first to react to Mickey's lie, pointing out that Iggy had been in the joint now for six years. Going on seven. What could he possibly need Mickey for?

"None of your fucking business, bitch," Mickey snarled and stood fast, walking over to his refrigerator and jerking open the door. The bottles inside jingled as he harshly pulled out a milk carton and glugged.

The banter went on for a while, Mickey finally convincing everyone and getting them to shut up. Ian expressed his disagreement with Mickey doing any favors for some guy locked away in federal prison. Kevin washed his hands of the whole situation and went back to work downstairs. Mandy just stopped talking to Mickey all together. Eventually, Mickey kicked Ian out, said he needed to talk to his sister alone.


	30. Promise I'll Come Back

_Mandy sat in her wheelchair, arms crossed as she looked into Mickey's face. He was holding her chair in place and she had finally stopped fighting him._

" _It wasn't Isaiah who called," he admitted._

" _Yeah, I fucking know!" Mandy hissed and punched Mickey in the chest. "Tell me the truth, Mickey!"_

_He hadn't. But Mandy had bought his new lie without doubt. Why? Because it sounded like something Mickey would have done._

Mickey woke up to the sound of running water. He jumped up off the sofa, disoriented from having been fast asleep. Upon standing, Mickey hit his knee against his reconstructed coffee table and hissed, rubbing at it. He looked toward the closed bathroom door and made a bee line. The air conditioning unit in the living room window was cranked full blast, and Mickey shivered a little as he banged on the bathroom door, wearing only a pair of boxers. He heard Mandy moving around in the bathroom, and yelled for her to open the door.

"I'm naked, Mickey!" she screeched. "Get lost!"

He stared angrily at the door, licking the corner of his mouth. His sister was as stubborn as he was, and had just as much pride. But that didn't mean Mickey was going to let Mandy try and get herself into a tub of water with only her scrawny arms as leverage. He had had to help her into that fucking wheelchair earlier, before passing out on the sofa, and all because she couldn't lift her own body weight. "What are you trying, Mandy?" he bellowed. "You're going to drowned yourself!"

"I'm fine!" she called, but her voice was strained.

Mickey took a step back from the door and ran his hand through his hair. "Stubborn idiot," Mickey spat to himself. Not that he was willing to help his sister take a bath. Really he hadn't even thought through all of the details of the care Mandy was going to need. Care he wasn't able to give. Or at least didn't want to have to give. Things like baths always skipped Mickey's mind. He shook his head as the events of yesterday tangled with his current situation. Containing himself, Mickey leaned into the door as he watched his next words carefully. "I'm not helping you get clean," he said. "But you can't try and do it yourself. You aren't able, Mandy. Put your clothes back on and open this door!" More rustling went on in the bathroom, making Mickey nervous and heated. "Mandy," he warned.

He heard the sound of metal meeting the porcelain tube. Heard Mandy struggling. Heard a splash and a yelp. Then more splashing and the occasional gasp. He banged on the door and juggled the knob, teeth bared, and eyes frantic. His knuckles turned white around the knob as he attempted to open the lock with no success. Finally Mickey took a few steps back and shot his leg out, wounded, bare foot connecting with the door. Mickey's foot started bleeding through its bandages again. He ignored the pain and kicked again, this time dislodging the door enough that he could jerk it open.

When he stepped inside the bathroom, he was met the sight of an overturned wheelchair and his sister's ass and legs dangling from the side of the bathtub. Her arms arched and trying to pull her upper half out of the water. Mandy's head went completely under as her arms gave out. Mickey lurched forward and grabbed her around the waist. He pulled her up. Her half soaked body crashed against him, as she coughed, chocking for air. Water dripped in copious amounts from her hair onto the tile. And as Mickey cussed at her, Mandy gave into her weak half and held her face, crying.

"Fuck," Mickey breathed, rolling his eyes, face wide and sympathetic, shocked still. He breathed through his mouth, out of breath from panicking and trying to hold onto his slippery sister. Finally Mickey gave up trying to turn the wheelchair over with one hand, attempting to balance Mandy at the same time, and fell brutally, on purpose, to his ass against the tub. Mandy cradled against him, still sobbing. Also cursing at him, embarrassed. Mickey caught his breath and exhaled heavily, looking at his now tilted bathroom door, and put his nose against the back of Mandy's head. "Calm down," he said, a little harsh.

Mandy pushed at his hands and growled as she cried, like some kind of wild animal. "Let go!" she could barely get out. "I want to take a fucking bath!"

Mickey shook her then, gripping her rips. He snarled. "Well, you're doing a pretty god damned horrible job," he barked, turning her to face him. "Just stop!" he stared at her swollen, crying face, his own eyes wide with rage. They softened when Mandy threw her arms around his neck and started sobbing all over again. Mickey just breathed and hugged his sister. He figured this was one of the more fucked up moments they had ever shared.

It had been more than awkward helping his sister dry off and redress. Thankfully Mandy had been shown by the nurse at the hospital how to reconnect her own bags. Because Mickey might have admittedly loved his sister, but he was not doing that shit. Once he had Mandy out of the bathroom, and had tossed a few towels over the massive puddle of water, Mickey poured a glass of straight whiskey and downed it, hand on his hip as he did so alone in the kitchen. "Don't try that shit again, you understand?" he said, knowing Mandy was behind him, in the archway. As he stared down into his dirty sink, Mickey swallowed hard. He was so fucked. His insides churned with more emotion than Mickey could deal with. Mickey knew he was about to leave. Today. He had to. And not just because Tony was at his fucking apartment in Indianapolis, probably raping the woman Mickey had been sharing a bed with for the last few years. Maybe killing her slowly to get information. And Brenda was fucking not going to risk her own life over Mickey's collection. She wasn't smart enough to figure Tony would just kill her anyway. Or maybe she was. Mickey just knew that desperate people always blabbed. So not only would he have the guilt weighing on him of Mandy's handicap, he would have blood on his hands over some fucking drugs. If he was honest, it kind of bothered him a little that Brenda might be dead. After all, a person didn't live with someone for three years and not care some. His chest felt hot deep inside, and not from the whiskey he had downed. So yeah. Not only tall of that, but Mickey still held out hope that his storage unit hadn't been found. Held out hope that he could get to it before Tony.

But fuck. Mickey couldn't leave Mandy here alone. Not after what had just happened. And he knew going back to Indianapolis was a suicide mission. Not just because of Tony. Julio knew what Mickey had done, now. And Tony might have not just been threatening Mickey with telling Julio Mickey was still alive. If Tony hadn't been, Mickey would have more than just Tony watching for him to show in Indianapolis. Or worse.

As another thought popped into Mickey's head, he groaned. Mandy asked him what was wrong. He didn't answer, instead just kept thinking. Kept thinking about what it would mean if Julio sent guys here to South Side again. It wasn't hard to trace a landline and find the fucking address.

It was because of that knowledge, that Mickey left Mandy upstairs and went downstairs to Kevin. It was because of that knowledge that Mickey told Kevin he had to leave for a while and needed Veronica to look after his sister. Kevin scoffed at first, but Mickey backed him against the wall, people watching, and Kevin changed his tune. When Mickey went back upstairs, Mandy watched him hurry to pack some of her shit which she had unloaded last night. Watched Mickey hurry to collect his prepacked luggage.

"What the hell's going on?" Mandy asked, hysterical.

Mickey pulled his bag over his shoulder securely and placed Mandy's by the door. He thumbed his bottom lip as he turned back to his waiting sister. Crouching, he held onto the arms of Mandy's chair. He held her gaze, serious, and told her he would be back. That she was staying at Kevin and Veronica's. Someone would be up to get her soon. To stay put and not do anything stupid. And Mandy had looked even more worried when Mickey leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on his sister's forehead before jumping to his feet and storming out. Mickey had actually told her goodbye, and Mickey knew he never said goodbye. Not like that. So he also knew he probably wouldn't really be back as he promised.


	31. Early

Ian's replacement cellphone rang at around two o'clock in the afternoon. At first he was going to ignore it, in favor of babying his broken-hearted sister over her newborn's death. But Jimmy, who had been walking out of the bathroom, looked down at the phone atop the windowsill, and furrowed his brow, the words leaving his mouth preventing Ian from being anything except for distraught. It was a call from Ian's base. They needed Ian back early, he discovered upon answering. His deployment had been rearranged because of complications in Kuwait. He was being deployed in less than two weeks and needed to get back pronto. After he hung up the phone, crestfallen, Ian turned to look at Fiona and sighed. He sat on the edge of her bed and she sat up, reaching out and touching his fingertips.

"Gotta leave me, huh?" she asked, smiling sadly.

Ian stared at her. He wanted to say no. To just quit right then. But he still had one more year, this last deployment, before he could tell the Marines just where to shove his dick. Instead, he nodded and moved his hand so that he was holding Fiona's. The IV in her hand stuck out like a sore thumb. Fiona looked nightmarish. But she was alive. At least Ian knew his sister was alive. He leaned over and hugged her. Fiona wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his neck.

"Go be a hero," she said. "I'll still be around when you get back."

And Ian had hugged his sister and shared goodbyes with the rest of his family that that evening, before packing up at Jimmy's. Lip was supposed to be by around four to go with Ian to the airport. Debbie was tagging along. Ian finished packing and looked up, seeing that it was six thirty. He sat back on the recliner and held the pet carrier on his lap, listening to the cat roar for freedom. His cat kind of reminded Ian a little of Mickey. Which was silly. But still, the resemblance in personality traits was kind of uncanny, Ian thought, grinning to himself. As his thoughts drifted toward Mickey, Ian felt of his own lips with two fingers. Mickey hadn't ripped Ian's tongue out at all. Unless if by ripping out, Mickey really had meant play tonsil hockey with. If that were the case, Ian wished he had kissed Mickey years ago. He stared down the empty hall, mind elsewhere. Thinking about how Mickey tasted kind of like stale cigarettes and Fintstones Vitamins. He chuckled. It had been a rather unexpected taste. But pleasant. Ian had always liked those vitamins.

He looked back at the clock. It hadn't even been five minutes. Ian sighed, making a fast decision, and stood, setting the pet carrier aside. He straightened out his clothes and rubbed the back of his neck. Ian wasn't a fool, he knew that after he left, Mickey was probably going to get the fuck out of Chicago, undoubtedly dragging Mandy along with him. Ian wouldn't ever see Mickey again. Or Mandy. He knew it. His chest hurt because of it. So he figured that if he wasn't going to see Mickey again, he might as well go over and say goodbye the right way. Finally just get it off his chest, even if Mickey reacted unfavorable. After all, what did it matter if Mickey got angry? After today, they wouldn't meet again. Life was pulling them in opposite directions. And Mickey was never going to admit what he was and come out of the fucking closet.

So Ian left Jimmy's house and rode the El to the Alibi. When he arrived, the Alibi was super crowded. Ian guessed that was why Kevin didn't notice him come in and make a mad dash up to Mickey's door. He knocked a few times and didn't get an answer. So he banged. Still nothing. Ian pulled out his phone and looked at the time. He had about ten minutes before Lip would be at Jimmy's, ready to take Ian to the airport with Debbie. No way was he going to make it back in time. So he texted Lip and jogged back down stairs to ask Kevin if he had seen Mickey and Mandy. Once downstairs, he pushed his way through to the bar. A game was on and Ian knew now why the place was so loud and rowdy. When he stepped up, Frank was there to greet him. Ian ignored Frank and got Kevin's attention. Kevin turned around. He was eating a few cherries as he mixed a pink drink.

"Have you seen Mickey?" Ian asked, his voice screaming above the noise.

Before Kevin could answer him, Frank butted in. "Gone," Frank slurred, moving his hand in a fast wiping motion. Ian looked to Frank, face falling. "Ran out of here," Frank continued, "like he was set on fire." Frank burped into his fist and looked sympathetically at Ian. Ian crossed his arms as Frank reached out and put a hand on Ian's shoulder. "It just wasn't meant to be, son," Frank said. "Sometimes you just have to know when to let someone go. Like I was with your mother. There is no need to chase someone who doesn't want to be caught."

Ian frowned and glanced at Kevin, who was now leaning towards them. "When?" he asked Kevin.

Kevin looked at Ian and the redhead saw a look of sudden understanding wash over Kevin's features. Kevin sighed. "Two hours ago," he told Ian. "Mandy's with Veronica. She's pretty upset."

"He didn't take her with him?" Ian blurted. His heart was heavy. The room felt hot, and not from body heat.

Kevin shook his head. "Said he was coming back," Kevin said, "but Mandy didn't seem to believe he was telling the truth."

Ian felt something gave out inside of him, but Ian held himself together and left the Alibi. He got back to Jimmy's at almost four thirty, since he had walked for a while before getting on the El. When he got there, Lip and Debbie were sitting outside against the car, talking. It seemed serious. Ian wanted to ask what it was about, but when he approached, they quickly stopped. Ian noted the look of having cried across Debbie's face. He figured it was probably not his business. He would eventually find out, anyway. Nothing more was said of the subject as Lip helped Ian load his things into the trunk.

The ride to the airport was long and deathly silent. This was not the goodbye Ian had hoped for.


	32. Dead and Gone

Mickey stepped off the bus for, finally, the last time in the last several hours. Tightening his bag around him and shoving through a family of six, who were taking their precious time, Mickey seethed. He could have fucking driven home faster than the Amtrack. The ride would have been a lot more pleasant, as well. They had taken to ten stops on the way. And not to mention that Mickey had been surrounded by snotty nosed brats the whole ride. He should have remembered how awful the Amtrack was from the last time he'd rode it out of Chicago. Should have taken the Megabus, like he had to go to his father's funeral. Scowling as he bitched inwardly, Mickey tossed his used up ticket and left the station.

The sun was bright today, burning Mickey's pale shoulders, as he was still wearing his black tank top and grey sweats from days past. He stopped walking and dug through his small duffle bag, locating his thin jacket and shrugging it on despite the heat. He was going to burn horribly if he didn't. Mickey never tanned, just blistered. And fuck if he was doing some girl shit, like put on sunscreen. Not like he had any, anyway. So, sweating worse than ever in his jacket, Mickey trudged through the streets of Indianapolis for nearly two hours before he reached his neighborhood.

He stood in the shadows of an alley, pressed against the wall and surveying the area. His breathing was up, as was his heart rate. He looked up to the window he knew was his and Brenda's. It was busted open and it hadn't been before. That had probably been how Tony got in. Because Brenda might have let Julio in the front door, but if Tony hadn't been lying, and he hadn't been the first one to raid Mickey's apartment and beat the hell out of Brenda, then Brenda had probably learned her lesson the first time. So Tony and Marcus had probably smashed Mickey's window when Brenda wouldn't let them in the front door. He inhaled deeply and held it and he climbed the alleyway stairs to his busted window. Going in that way, he figured, would be smartest. If they were still in there. When he reached the top, Mickey sat his bag down quietly, making a face as he tried ever so hard not to make even a slight sound when he unzipped it. He dug around and felt for his gun. He found it wrapped up in his shirt and unraveled it slowly. Careful.

Once Mickey had his gun out of the bag, he stood and creeped into his own place, one leg at a time. The glass beneath his feet crunched, and Mickey fought not to curse out of frustration. He stood very still after the first crunch, listening for voices, anything. Nothing. So he hopped across the rubble and eased into the living room. He stopped in the entryway, frozen. His heart pounded in his ears, and his eyes went wide. He put the gun down to his side. Mickey judged that, by the way she was sprawled out against the overturned sofa in a puddle of blood, Brenda was the only one home. Tony and Marcus were long gone.

Mickey dropped his gun to the floor and rushed over to Brenda's corpse. He crouched down and reached for her neck with two fingers, expecting she was dead. How could she not be? A bullet had shot through her stomach and grazed her head. Yet she had a faint pulse.

Sighing, Mickey looked down at Brenda, his eyes glassed over, his face sullen. He dropped his hands to his sides, now down on his knees. He looked her over. Brenda's curly, long, black hair was soaked in blood. Her dark skin was covered in bruises and cuts. She was wearing that ugly t-shirt that was ten sizes too big. He remembered when she came home with it from the thrift store down the street. He'd always hated it. It was powder blue and had a cat on the front of it with the word perfect across the tits. But spelled like purr. Fucking stupid shirt that she constantly wore around the house. His eyes trailed down her beaten legs. One was broken at the thigh, bone sticking out slightly. Lastly, Mickey's eyes came to rest around Brenda's ankles. Her underwear hung by one foot. He turned his pained face and looked into the puddle of blood that was streaming down the floor in a single line. It was drying. So she'd been shot a couple of hours ago, he guessed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Tony?" he whispered to no one but himself, his eyes back on Brenda.

He hadn't loved Brenda. Hell, half the time, he hadn't even liked her. Yet Mickey reached out and touched her bruised face. In truth, he thought, turning Brenda's head, she had been a beautiful woman. Mixed, black and Hispanic. But she was always so doped up that no one would have fucking guess she was somewhat pleasant to be around at times.

He looked down at Brenda's face, frowning, the stress lines on his face prominent. Hand still cupping Brenda's chin, Mickey called her name to see if she was responsive. Her brown eyes fluttered but not enough to fully open. Her breathing was terribly weak. Mickey let her go and went over to the phone. And he looked at it for a while before deciding on his best course of action. Brenda might live if she was rushed to a hospital. He doubted it. On the other hand if he called out from this phone to report an attacked, dying woman, Mickey was basically setting himself to look like an accomplice. After all, his prints were all over this apartment. And his living with her would actually make him look more guilty. Mickey knew how the law worked. Not to mention he was someone with a lot on his record, anyway. But Mickey wasn't going to rob Brenda of a chance at survival. So he bit the bullet and phoned an ambulance. After he reported it, Mickey hung up despite the operator's request not to.

After hanging up, Mickey rushed into his old room. Old because he knew now for certain that he had to get out of Indianapolis. If he didn't die trying, that was. So he went into the ransacked room and dug around for the keys to his storage unit. He couldn't find them. In the distance Mickey heard sirens. Cursing under his breath, Mickey threw things and pulled at his hair, kicking at the mismatched furniture that had previously been tossed about. Finally he gave up looking and ran into the kitchen. He got under the sink and grabbed a crowbar. Before leaving through the window, he picked up his gun. He took his bag with him and ran down the alley stairs.

Once down, he hid behind dumpsters and watched, crouching and looking over his shoulder, as the police ran inside, the paramedics hanging back momentarily for clearance. Mickey left without being spotted, thankfully. He ran through back alleys and jumped a few fences. He snagged his pant leg and fell from one fence, disturbing some of the neighborhood dogs. Finally Mickey stopped running. But only because his lungs felt closed up. He was slightly nauseated. He stopped and bent over, holding his knees and gasping for air. It took him quite some time to gain composure. A few people that crossed his path looked strangely at Mickey. After all, he had blood on the knees of his pants, some on his hands and elbows. His shirt was filthy, and he was brandishing a crowbar. He probably looked like something off a slasher film. Mickey just hoped no one would phone the police.

He stood up straight and looked across the street to the four rows of storage units surrounded by a giant fence. Mickey looked around for any sign of company as he crossed the street. He knew that maybe he should wait for nightfall to break into his own storage, what with how things looked. But fuck it. He didn't have time to wait around.

Honestly, Mickey kind of figured that maybe Tony and Marcus had already done it in and made off with mickey's stuff. That was the likeliest of scenarios. Yet he marched on toward the door he knew was his. His stomach lurched upon seeing that the door stood wide open. Quickly, Mickey shot flat against the wall beside of his door, out of sight. He took a few breathes and held tightly to his crowbar, just listening. After a few minutes of silence, Mickey exhaled and jumped out in front of the opened door, crowbar extended and bag forgotten on the ground.

At first, Mickey didn't see anything but a trashed room, cluttered with papers and cardboard boxes. Two wooden end tables and a torn leather sofa. But he did note that the wooden chest towards the back was missing. They had taken the heroin.

Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and threw the crowbar, pissed. It missed the sofa and went over the back. It was about the time that Mickey noticed the spray of red across one of the boxes that he realized the crowbar didn't clang upon landing. He knitted his brow and began moving forward toward the sofa. Mickey peered over his sofa, already pulling the gun from the back of his waistband. But he dropped his hand, stopping, upon setting eyes on just what his crowbar had landed on.

Tony. Deader that shit.


	33. Funny That

It was scorching hot. Mickey's clothes were sticking to him and his skin was slick with sweat. His jacket had been tossed across the sofa a while back. The door to his storage was shut, making it even more stuffy and suffocating. But Mickey couldn't very well leave the door standing wide open as he sat on the floor with a corpse drinking entirely too much Pabst Blue Ribbon. So much that he was pretty sure he might get alcohol poisoning. Yet he finished another can and threw it at his brother's body, directly across from him. Mickey had scooted the sofa back after going to grab three cases of beer. Now he was in the floor, knees bent and back against the sofa, toasting to Tony's corpse.

It was a strange feeling that Mickey had. Try as he might, he couldn't quite place how he felt over his brother's death. Relief. Deliverance. Nostalgia. Sadness. Regret. Anger. All of those barely described the mess that was Mickey's heart. He cracked open another beer and studied Tony's surprised face, turned slightly toward Mickey.

"Well," Mickey said and tipped his can, "can't say I'll miss you."

Still, somehow Mickey felt a tug in his chest and a ball in his throat. He didn't want to feel anything for the fucker before him. Yet he did. Because Tony was his fucking family. Because Mickey couldn't help but remember times when his big brothers, Tony and Iggy, the Milkovich twins, had babysat Mickey, Stan, Joey, and, Mandy. They hadn't been so bad then. Of course, Mickey had been only five, so how well could he really remember.

Not much, except being fed horrible food, getting hyped up on sugar, and passing out to some really fucked up horror movies way past his bed time. Or sneaking into R rated movies and having to sit on Tony's lap because he couldn't see. Or helping Tony prank their mother, before she'd run off. Being taught how to shoot a gun. How to fight. Jesus, even how to piss and shave, being as Terry Milkovich hadn't really been home a lot. But Mickey also remembered his older years, when Tony had fed an eight year old Mickey beer and pizza until the child puked himself to sleep over the toilet, Tony howling with laughter at his expense. Among other nightmares. And a later slip into self-loathing after seeing Tony and Iggy drag home a gay kid from school, tie him up out back, and hose him down with scorching hot water while the kid screamed for help that never came. Mickey had been twelve then, and already figuring out that he wasn't like his four older brothers, chasing skirts at school. Had already caught himself playing barbies with Mandy twice when he'd been bored. So Mickey had watched his brother's nearly drown that gay kid, horrified as he stood in the kitchen doorway. There had been other instances too, later, where his brothers had forced Mickey to join in on what they referred to as blanket parties. A small piece of Mickey was hidden away each time he and his brothers attacked some random gay and tossed a blanket over them, beating the person until he was gasping for air and crying.

Mickey sighed as he sat there, and stared down at Tony. "I hate you," Mickey said, his voice low and gravely. "I really hate you. And I really hate the rest of this fucked up family."

Except Mandy, who was alright.

"But I wish you weren't dead. Because I never," Mickey's voice began to break, "got to tell you that to your face. You fuck," he spat, and could feel the sting in his eyes. No one was around to see, so Mickey gave in and let himself cry. He cried for a while, the finally said, "You're the reason," his voice heated and emphasized, "that I hate me too!"

Finally Mickey raised his shirt and wiped his face, calmer now. He sat his beer aside, having lost count. Two twelve packs were empty and the last sat open near his knees. He felt sleepy. So Mickey rested his head back and let his legs fall flat. He closed his eyes. But his bladder didn't let him stay asleep long. Mickey woke up, about to bust. Hobbling to his feet, he walked over his brother's body and opened up a random cardboard box. He dug around and found a pair of musky smelling jean shorts, switched into those. He figured that he didn't need to be seen wearing bloody pants anymore than he already had. He poured a can of hot beer over his arms, rinsing off his elbows. Clean enough, Mickey opened up his unit door, then closed it fast behind him, stepping back into the sweltering Indianapolis heat. He walked around the row of units, across the broken up cement, and found a grassy corner to piss in. He held onto the wall, steadying himself, still drunk. Moaning as he relieved himself, Mickey was completely in his own world and unaware of the eyes on his back. Until he hear the woop of a police car, fast and sudden. Saw blue lights against the wall. He jerked, rushing to zip himself up, not having time to shake off. When he turned around, still fixing himself inside his pants, Mickey laughed.

The female policeman was stepping out of her car, frowning at Mickey with crossed arms. "Sir," the officer began, tone serious, "you're aware that relieving yourself in public will get you a ride to the station." She rolled her eyes as Mickey finished zipping his pants. "And exposing yourself to a female officer is a misdemeanor," she finished, already getting her cuffs from around her belt. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to turn around and face the wall," she continued, moving toward him. "Don't make this harder on yourself," she said, clicking on the cuffs as Mickey rolled his eyes but did as he was told.

Mickey was laughing quietly. Honestly, he would usually have told the woman to go fuck herself, and darted off. But what with having been witness to two murders today, having one of the bodies in his storage unit, and having robbed a convenience store earlier, Mickey really didn't feel like drawing attention to himself. So he let the woman cuff him without fighting back in the slightest.

She gagged as her face neared his back when she cuffed him. "And being  _extremely_  intoxicated in public is also arrest worthy," she said, holding her breath.

Probably because not only was Mickey stinking of booze from having drank plenty, he had bathed in the stuff as well. He laughed harder. Was even laughing on the way to the station. He stopped after a while, settling for staring out the window, vision blurred.

Unfortunately for Mickey, the Indianapolis police were a lot more thorough then Chicago PD. After he'd been strip searched, forced to take a shower, placed into a gray jumper, had his picture taken, and was lead into a room of eight other men, all looking somewhat similar, Mickey was dismayed to find out that the reason that officer had been hanging around the storage units in the first place had been because of Mickey's burglary. She had been waiting for him to show himself, just so she could get him in a line up. The store clerk identified Mickey immediately.

Three days later, he was sitting in a court room, feeling right at home. Given his previous record, the Judge babbled, Mickey should sentenced to at least two years with no chance of parole. And the Judge would loved to have stuck it to Mickey. However, Mickey was one lucky fuck, because, since the officer who had arrested him had not only forgotten to read Mickey his rights, she had also not informed him properly of just why he was being arrested. Mickey had his smart ass lawyer to help him out of that one. Thank fuck for those who helped the lowly.

Of course, Mickey was still forced to spend the next two months in lock-up before he could be released under mandatory supervision. Which basically meant that, after he would be released, Mickey was a free man who didn't have to check in with a snot nosed parole officer. Didn't have to get a job and stick around. Mickey could get the fuck out of Indianapolis before Julio found out he'd been back. And the day that Mickey woke up, was informed that he had a visitor, Mickey kind of figured Julio must have found out. Figured he'd probably get shanked in the shower tomorrow. But he didn't refuse the visitor because Mickey wanted to face his maker. He was no coward.

Mickey walked in front of the officer, stood aside as the man opened the door to the visiting quarters, then walked into the room where other men were lined up, using one side of their two way phones. He was confused and scared. But he held onto his scowl and approached the glass. Slowly his face softened into surprise. He sat down and reached out for the phone, brow knitted. "Brenda?" he said, into the receiver.

She sat across from him, through the glass, still bruised and weak looking. It had been only a month. Brenda looked around nervously, anywhere but at Mickey. She pushed the receiver down on her shoulder and rubbed at her arms, scratching.

Mickey inhaled and looked her over. She was straight. He could tell because of her scratching and chewed off nails. Also because she wasn't squint eyed and drooping. She obviously hadn't been high in a while. Probably since the hospital.

Finally Brenda looked at him, her eyes wide and scared. She whispered into the phone, looking down. "Julio knows, Mickey," she said. She pushed a curl behind her ear. Most of her hair was pinned up, revealing the bruises around her neck and the scabs on her shoulders. She was wearing an oversized red tank-top, dirty and ripped. Her white gypsy skirt was turning a sort of gray color. She worried her stitched up lips.

"Quit," Mickey said in regards to her pulling at the stitches.

Brenda stopped and sat back in her chair, looking around again. She held the receiver properly now. "I'm sorry, Mickey," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Mickey's heart raced. Not that he wasn't a little glad to see Brenda walking, but she shouldn't be here. One, how had she known Mickey was in here to begin with. Two, she was sober. And three, she was extremely on edge. No. Mickey didn't like her visiting him not one little bit. If Julio knew Mickey was in town, then Mickey guess he knew just why Brenda was here.

"Fuck you, you god damned cunt," Mickey hissed into the receiver. "Why the fuck are you doing him a favor? I saved your life!"

She looked at him, brown eyes watering. "And I said I'm sorry!" she yelled. "But I can't help it, Mick. He won't. . .he's not going to. . ." she trailed, not finding the right way to phrase herself. Obviously trying to not let on that she was such a traitor.

Mickey snorted, closing his eyes and turning his cheek. "He what?" Mickey barked. "What's the matter, Brenda, your big cousin not giving you your weekly allowance?"

She hiccuped a cry and covered her mouth. "Shut up, Mickey!" she said. "I don't know what else to do! I'm fucked, man! Fucked!"

Mickey laughed and wanted to bash the bitch's head in. "So what, you thought you'd fuck me too?" He pursed his mouth and took deep breaths.

Brenda twirled the phone cord. "Julio wants me to give you a message," she said. "That's all. He said he would leave me alone if I did that."

Mickey rolled his eyes. Brenda really was dense if she believed Julio would let her live, now that he had probably guessed Brenda had been helping Mickey hide the fucking heroin. He sighed. Yeah, he guessed he was fucked too. He accepted his fate. "What's the message?" Mickey asked.

"He said he," she paused, thinking, "wanted to see you at Christopher's when you get released."

Mickey frowned. "Christopher's? What, he ain't gonna let one of his lackey's do me in lockedup?"

Brenda worried her lip again. "He just wants to talk, he said," Brenda said, but even she didn't believe that, her voice gave her away.

Mickey hufffed. "Yeah, fucking right," he said and hung up the phone.


	34. Start Over

" _Gallagher!" someone bellowed as hands shook Ian's face, slapping him. "G_ _allagher!"_

_Ian just watched the man's mouth because it was increasingly hard to hear him. Not only over the chaos that had broken out around them, but because all Ian could hear from the right side of his head was an extremely loud ring. He winced, holding his head and looked pleadingly at the man who was trying to lift him. The pain in Ian's head was excruciating. He panted, clutching at the other man's sleeve as he was rushed away from the scene._

_He pulled his hand away from his head and felt queasy at the sight of how much blood was all over him. Coming from his ear. Ian's heart raced away from him and he fainted._

A month had passed since the events in Kuwait. A month spend half in the infirmary, and the other half spent packing up and heading back to Chicago. Tate had visited him once while Ian spent time recovering in the hospital, after being shipped in a copter back to California. Of course they hadn't made up entirely. But Tate made peace with Ian before he walked out of the redhead's life for the last time. Had said his stuff was already cleaned out of their apartment. He'd been living with a costar. Ian tried to care. It hurt worse that he didn't.

Sitting in the windowsill in Lip's new place, Ian found himself snapping his fingers near his right ear. He did this for a while, assuming he was alone.

"Still nothing?" Lip's voice called out.

Ian jumped a little and then sighed. He had heard his brother, but only from the left side, causing Lip to sound far away. It was honestly kind of unsettling, how only being able to hear out of one ear threw every sense Ian had completely off. Ian turned and looked at his brother. He shook his head, putting his hands on his thigh and gripping as he hefted himself to his feet in the empty room.

"Well, they said it was permanent, so keep trying," Lip said, hands in his pockets as he hung casually against the door frame, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the paint stained tank-tank under neath, "but don't get your hopes up."

Ian nodded and rubbed his ear. It ached deep inside. An ache that never seemed to dull.

"Mandy's helping me paint," Lip said, jerking his thumb behind him. "Wanna join?"

Ian smiled a little and glanced around the medium sized room filled only with two plastic bins full of Ian's random items. His furniture was still in the truck outside. The truck Lip was borrowing. Ian kind of knew that Jimmy had stolen the truck. Jimmy or Lip one. But he didn't say anything.

"Sure," Ian finally sighed out. He walked through the hallway, eventually stepping into the open panned kitchen and living space. Plastic covered the floors and ceiling. Ian looked around, amused when his eyes landed on Mandy, who was working on painting a very detailed penis on the wall. He trailed his gaze across the expanse of the whole wall Mandy was working on. She had drawn various other random objects. He laughed outright at the image of a very deformed bear.

"What's funny?" Mandy snapped, frowning and wheeling herself over after she dropped the paintbrush onto the plastic.

Lip chuckled and walked away, picking up his roller and painting as the two spoke.

Ian twirled Mandy's chair once, causing her to laugh, startled. "Just that you draw really badly," Ian said, stopping the chair abruptly, smirking.

Mandy crossed her arms and feigned annoyance.

"What art class did you take?" Ian teased.

Mandy looked at him sarcastically, then turned up her nose, saying, "I didn't. Mickey taught me when we were kids. He was always great with artsy shit." Her face dropped suddenly at the mention of her brother's name. Not only because the sound of his name made her eyes threaten to tear up, but because Ian suddenly looked depressed all over again. "Anyway," Mandy said, clearing her throat and patting Ian's wrist, "it's not like you can do any better."

And Ian tried to smile. He supposed he pulled off a small one. It was true, he couldn't draw for shit. Ian had never been artistic in any way. Not musically, classically, or with words. But now he couldn't stop thinking, wondering on the fact that, apparently, Mickey had been. Mickey. Mandy had told him, a few weeks back, before he'd flown out, that her brother was still missing. He hadn't even called. Ian didn't know what to make of it, given that he had some information that, apparently, Mandy didn't. But he kept his mouth shut because the information that Ian had could mean two things: either Mickey was fine, had made it back to Indianapolis and collected his drugs and sold them off, was just off in Mexico somewhere, living it up; or option two, Mickey was dead. Ian didn't like thinking over option two. Ian sighed and followed Mandy across the room, took the brush that she handed him.

He helped some, but around sunset, Ian took a break. Sitting on the counter, snacking on a bag of chips, Ian watched Lip paint a mustache on Mandy. He sighed, grinning at how happy Mandy seemed. Genuinely happy. It was an expression that Ian hadn't expected to see grace Mandy's face ever again. Ian chuckled when Mandy punched Lip in the gut. His brother grunted and wrapped his arms around Mandy just before twisting her extremely fast. Mandy begged for freedom while laughing. Eventually they went back to painting the wall instead of one another. Ian sat the chips aside and joined them again.

And so they painted the living room, kitchen, and each other. His mood was lightened by the time Lip helped Mandy into the bathroom. They had purchased a lot of things to help Mandy out around the house. She insisted on taking care of herself. But bathing was where Lip put his foot down. Ian moved into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, laughing when he heard Mandy's squeal at the sudden rush of cold water which she'd likely been met with. The plumbing in this place was less than stellar.

Later, once Mandy had cleaned off and complained of being tired, Ian hung back and painted more while Lip took Mandy away and helped her down onto the mattress in their unpacked, unfurnished room. Maybe forty minutes later, Lip came back out and grabbed up Ian's forgotten bag of chips. His hair was still damp from helping Mandy shower, obviously having joined her. Lip sat the bag down, scratched his bare stomach, and waved Ian over. Putting down his roller, Ian walked over and sat atop a stack of boxes across from the counter. Lip bent around, still sitting, and dug through the drawer behind him. He pulled out a plastic bag, rolling paper, and a lighter. Sitting upright again, Lip dropped the bag's contents into a piece of rolling paper and started up a joint. They passed it between them until their eyes glazed and turned red. Once it was finished, Lip laid back on the counter top and let his arm droop off the side. Lip sighed, content, and lolled his head to face Ian. He started at the redhead for a minute. "So," he began, "you start your new job tomorrow." Ian nodded, Lip continued asking Ian if he was nervous.

"Not really," Ian said. "But I do wonder if everything will work out," he finished saying, and touched his deaf ear. "I still feel off," he added.

Lip stared for a second, his palm slapping the counter as it swung about. He sighed sympathetically at Ian. Ian hated that as much as he was grateful. "I read once that losing one of your senses can take years to cope with," Lip said gently. "Since you only lost half of your hearing, I'll bet you pull out of it soon. It'll just take some"

"Getting used to?" Ian interrupted, frowning. "I don't think I'll ever just get used to this, Lip," he griped.

"Of course not," Lip corrected, his face contorting as if he regretted his phrasing. But almost instantly, his eyes hardened some and he frowned back at Ian. "At least you can walk," he commented. Ian could practically taste the venom behind those words. The rage bubbling just beyond Lip's surface. "Look," Lip continued, "I'm sorry this happened to you, Ian, but you fucking know it could be worse. Stop moping and be glad you lived."

The argument pretty much ended there. Ian knew his brother was right. Not that knowing made it easier, though. A long silence overtook the two men as the sun left completely. Their high wore off. Once both were sober, Ian decided that if Lip could touch on fragile ground, so could he. Ian picked at a piece of raised cardboard, chewing the inside of his bottom lip. He stopped toying with the box beneath him long enough to rub at the dried paint on his jeans. Lip watched him, face blank. Finally Ian gathered up his guts and turned a sharp eye to his brother. "When will your divorce be final?" he asked, voice low. He'd been wanting to ask since he arrived to find that Mandy was living with Lip.

Lip's face washed over with surprised frustration. "It'll take a year," he said, "so like, a little over ten more months."

"And Mandy?" Ian stated, clearing his throat.

Lip knitted his brow. "What about her?" he asked, confusion all over his face.

Ian grinned ironically, in disbelief. He rolled his eyes and snorted. "If the courts find out about infidelity, you could lose everything," Ian said. "Prenup or not."

Lip scoffed. 'Yeah. I wish Amy would try and bring me up on this," he said, hopping down from the counter. "She won't because she knows I have the upper hand here."

And Ian knew that meant Lip knew a guy in the courts who probably owed him and Jimmy for something. Ian still wasn't clear exactly what his brother and brother-in-law were involved in. Probably something to do with stolen, flipped cars. He kind of wondered if homes were now included in Lip and Jimmy's business. It would make sense. After all, Lip had moved Mandy into this apartment with him and was paying no rent or mortgage whatsoever. Had told Ian that it was paid for out right. Later, when Ian had moved back, had snooped around while Lip and Mandy slept, he stumbled across the deed to the place. Signed three years ago, over to his brother. Ian found himself wondering just how many houses his brother had bamboozled from the less intelligent.

Lip scratched his head and yawned. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rubbed his arms as goosebumps popped up. To change the subject, he asked Ian if the younger man wanted to go ahead and bring some of his stuff in from the truck. Ian said yes, and it was about an hour later before they had brought in Ian's futon bed and more boxes, a lamp, and the cat's litter box. Lip had refused to help set up the cat's shitter and had gone off to bed with Mandy some time later. After Lip left him, Ian sat in the middle of his new room, the cat sleeping on his lap, and began digging through his boxes. He exhaled heavily when he pulled out the photo album he had brought back with him. All pictures of Tate removed. Which of course meant that the last few years of his life's photographed memories had also been thrown out. Ian thumbed through the pages, swallowing hard as pictures of he and his family, before Ian had gone off to join the Marines, flapped by. The pages became increasingly empty, only a few stray photos of he and the other Gallagher family members scattered about the blank pages, where they had been mingled with those of Ian and Tate. Ian patted his cat. It was not so much the thought of having lost his lover and all the memories that bothered Ian. Really, he was glad the charade was over. No. It was more that, as he looked through this album and pondered the last five years of his life, Ian found himself regretting far too much and looking favorably upon far too little. Usually Ian hated starting over. Tonight, as he looked around the mostly bare room, and crawled into his newly made bed, Ian was actually kind of glad for change. For starting over. He just wished he could hear his fan going, since his bad ear was facing up, the other buried in his pillows. Wished he felt like everything was going to be okay. Wished he didn't feel a sinking feeling every time he looked down at the picture he held, as he cuddled his pet.

Ian stared at the picture in his hand and closed his eyes. The image of he and Mandy, much younger, hanging out under the El, drunk and high, forever burned into his mind. Not so much because of the image. It was only them sitting in the snow, laughing like fools, the light exposure bad because the train had been going overhead. The picture was even blurred. No. It was the memory of who had taken that picture. That was the reason Ian couldn't get the image to leave him. He fell asleep remembering that night, his dreams tangling with memories. Dreams where the night Mickey took that picture begrudgingly, the youngest Milkovich boy was blue and bleeding, pissed off even in death.


	35. The Need to Forget

He didn't feel anywhere near the same. Didn't smell the same. Didn't sound the same. Wasn't the same. And why should he be? After all, the guy Ian had his dick buried balls deep in wasn't the same. He wasn't Mickey. Yes, the lithe brunette was attractive. He was smart and had dotted all of his Is and crossed his Ts. Was a well respected citizen of Chicago. Was proud of who he was. Was everything Ian had always wanted in someone. But yet here Ian was, unable to picture anything but Mickey if he closed his eyes. Even as he fucked this guy. This guy who Ian had been training now for almost three weeks in this god forsaken gym. This guy who bore a striking resemblance to Mickey Milkovich, minus the permafrown and bad attitude. And a layer of dirt and sweat coating his skin. Minus jet black, gelled up hair and eyes a soft blue.

"Why'd you stop?" the man below him breathed, sweat dripping from his brow, his hair drenched as he turned around.

Ian frowned. He shook his head and bent over briefly to pull his basket-ball shorts back up. He looked out the window behind his fuck buddy. The sky was gray and it was raining. The window was cracked slightly, and the cold breeze from outside gave Ian a shiver. It was surprisingly cold for a late-August day. He sighed heavily and looked the other man over. The guys looked annoyed and confused. Ian sniffed and reached beside of his, to his desk. He began putting his tan t-shirt back on. After he pulled it over his head, he noted that his company had already pulled his sweats back up. "I guess now's just not a good time, Scott," Ian said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He felt bad. But not bad enough to stop himself from feeding the other man a line of crap. "My ear's killing me. I think I'm just going to have to call it a day."

Scott cocked a brow and began putting on his own shirt. He laughed, thrown. "And you decide this in the middle of sex?" he complained. He shook his head and rubbed his smooth chin as he stepped around Ian and picked up the water bottle on the floor next to Ian's office door. "Okay," he said, still shaking his head. He took a swallow of water and then crossed his arms, the bottle against his side, still open. "Tomorrow?" he asked.

Ian nodded, fake rubbing his ear. It did ache, but no more than usual.

With that, Scott left and Ian plopped down behind his desk. He propped his face up with his arm and rubbed at his brows. It was wrong of him to string Scott along. Ian thought he would just end their relationship tomorrow. They had been seeing each other since Ian began working at the gym. Ian had only noticed Scott because, from the side and about seven feet away, the man had looked exactly like Mickey. At first Ian had thought it was Mickey, until he approached the guy and whirled him around. From dead front, Scott barely looked like Mickey at all. Only had his side profile. But it had been enough to cause Ian to feel a need to be around Scott. Enough for Ian to offer his services at bulking up, since that had been the only reason Scott was in the gym to begin with. Enough to make Ian stick around for this long. If only because Scott also kind of reminded Ian of Mickey. Certain parts, of Mickey, that was. Only the ones Mickey had let out on rare occasion. But Ian was disenchanted now. Not only that, but being around Scott was making it difficult to think about anything but, well, Mickey. And Ian kind of wanted to forget Mickey a little. Because Mickey might never come back, for one reason or another. Because Ian need to get his life together and move on. Because Ian really wanted to quit having dreams about Mickey. Even the good ones. It wasn't healthy to obsess. Ian had already been through this one. And now the withdrawal was even more difficult to swallow than in the past. Because now that Ian had reconnected with Mickey, the situation was different. Now Ian had possibly gotten closer to Mickey than he had even come close to when they were younger. Because now Ian couldn't even take his daily vitamin without remembering Mickey's taste. Because now Ian knew Mickey obviously felt the same. At least, Ian thought he might. Even though Mickey was gone now for two months, no word. Ian got a feeling that Mickey hadn't completely let go of their past either. Ian was fucked. This whole situation was fucked.

Ian growled and slapped over his container of pens, ill. He wanted to stop thinking. So he left work early and went to see Kevin at the Alibi Room. By the time he left the Alibi, Ian was torn up. So drunk that he had more than a hard time finding the key to his front door as he shifted through the mess that was his key-chain. He could hardly keep his eyes open as he fumbled, dropping the keys once, twice, and finally a third time. He cursed loudly in the hallway. He stumbled forward, shocked as the front door flew open.

Mandy stared at him, looking furious as she briskly turned her chair and wheeled aside for Ian to fall in. Which he literally did. "What the hell, Ian?" Mandy bitched, nudging him with her wheel, a little too hard. "It's not even five!"

"So?" Ian said, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He yawned, sleepy from having drank too much.

Rolling her eyes, Mandy said, "Wait until Lip sees this. He's already aggravated with you over the stove," she continued to gripe down at him.

"That really wasn't my fault," Ian slurred. "And I wasn't drunk then, he's wrong."

Mandy groaned and wheeled toward the kitchen. Yelling back at him that he certainly was drunk now. When she came back, she handed him down a glass of water and two painkillers. She told him to take them now, so that his hangover wouldn't kill him later. Ian sat up, obliging. A few hours later, still drunk, but in better condition, Ian sat on the sofa and watched Mandy flip the channels. She sat beside of the sofa, still in her chair because Ian was too drunk to help her out of it. Her muscles still weren't strong enough to lift herself all the way. The last time she'd tried, Mandy had almost broken her nose on the coffee table.

Ian yawned and settled back, stretching out and counting the swirls on the raised dots on the ceiling. Mandy called it popcorn ceiling. It reminded her of home, she had once said, but did not elaborate. His eyes drooped and he heard Mandy mute the television. He glanced over at her.

"Ian?" Mandy began. Her tone was soft and hesitant. She looked shy. It was weird.

"Yeah?"

"Mickey," she said, "the two of you. . ." She trailed, chewing on her thumbnail. "Is Mickey actually gay?" she blurted, looking sideways at him, her cheeks red.

Ian's eyes popped. His mouth fell open and he mumbled incoherently for a second before gathering his thoughts. Still laying back, he tucked his arms behind his head and crossed his ankle. Aware that his own cheeks were pink. Grateful that he was drunk enough for his blush to pass off has a side-effect. "That's not really my business to share, Mandy," he said. Although, because of Mandy's phrasing, Ian found himself startled that she actually seemed to have known before hand.

Mandy stopped biting his nails and turned around to face him fully. Her chair knocked the coffee table a little. She crossed her arms. "Tell me this, then," she probed, scowling now. "The reason Lip had he had a fight, was it because something's going on between you and my brother?"

Refusing to look at her, Ian closed his eyes. "Mandy, leave it alone," he said. His head was spinning, only partially because of the alcohol.

"I'm asking because it's been bothering me," she said. "Two people only fight like you and Mickey did before he left because their either related or fucking. And you aren't related, so." She shoved his feet, trying to get his attention. "Christ, fucking answer me, already!" she barked. When he didn't, Mandy laughed without mirth. "How long?" she asked. "Humor me, here, Ian."

Finally, Ian sighed, gave in. "How long since before he took off, or how long since before I joined the Marines?" he came back.

"Oh my God," Mandy breathed. "You were the one fucking Mickey before he went in to juvie?" She looked his straight in the eyes when Ian finally sat up a little and opened his. She ran a hand through her long, bushy hair. Her eyes came to rest on the muted screen. "Mickey ever tell you why he ran?" she began.

Ian knitted his brow, still propping up on his elbows. He shook his head. Where was Mandy going with this? He wanted to know and at the same time feared that he didn't.

"Our dad," she said, her face sullen, "walked in on me and this friend of mine from school. He was real pissed because my friend was a girl." As she admitted this, Mandy twiddled the hem of her nightgown.

Brows up because of Mandy's admission, Ian smirked despite himself. "You had sex with another girl?" he asked.

"It was experimental," Mandy bit, slapping his foot. Her face fell back into place after a minute of being sidetracked. "When dad walked in on us, he was drunk and more than a little surly." Mandy continued. And so she told Ian about Mickey saving her from their drunken, abusive father. About Mickey admitting he was gay and taking a hit head first through the stove. A knife to the neck.

He could only stare at Mandy in shock. The scars he had seen on Mickey's head and neck. Ian guessed he knew now why Mickey hadn't talked about them.

"Mickey spent a whole month in the hospital," Mandy said. "The doctors wanted to keep him longer, but Mickey was scared. He didn't say so, but I could tell he was paranoid, waiting for our dad our brothers to storm in and finish him off."

Ian's heart sank in his chest. He felt sick and hot all over.

"So Mickey left the hospital one night without release. He came by my window and told me he was leaving with some guy he met in juvie. Told me he would call sometime when things calmed down," Mandy said. She looked at Ian, her eyes full of dejection. "I didn't hear from Mickey for almost a year. After you left, I got a call one day," as she spoke, her voice broke and her eyes filled with unwanted tears. She wiped at her eyes, furious that her emotions had betrayed her. "I thought he had died!" she said. "The fuckhead called me, finally," she said. "Drunk and as hell. I think he doesn't remember, though," Mandy finally gained control of herself. "I think he must have been wasted on more than alcohol because he called me a couple of weeks later, like it was the first time."

Wanting to comfort Mandy somehow, but still too upset over hearing this himself, Ian laid back down and rubbed his face. He couldn't be hearing this right.

"The first time he called, I should have known then," Mandy laughed. "When he called me, all he asked me was if Ian Gallagher was still alive." She softened her face and looked down at her legs. "I thought he was just being a douche," she said, more to herself.

A while later, Ian saw Mandy off to bed and curled back up on the sofa. His cat had taken to sleeping with Mandy, who had grown very fond of the furry nuisance. So he laid there alone, lost in his thoughts until he finally passed out. At some point Ian must have rolled onto his good ear. Because he didn't wake up when two men barged into the apartment and dragged Mandy out of her room, kicking and screaming. He only woke up because the cat jumped on his head. Startled, Ian jerked away, bolted up, and was immediately able to hear the commotion in the hallway. He practically flew from the sofa, diving for the man pulling Mandy around by her useless legs as she screamed for Ian's help.


	36. Fall

_The gun went off beside of his left ear, and as he grabbed his head and fell over, Ian screamed. But he couldn't hear himself. Not even a little. His right hand was warm from the blood flowing out of his once good ear. The ringing. That was all he could hear. The familiar ringing that he'd heard once before. When he had lost his left ear to the chaos in Kuwait._

_Ian curled into a ball as the pain overtook him. He shut his eyes tightly and gripped at his head. The floor shook beneath him as the man who had shot at him close range, missing on purpose, somehow knowing that Ian was deaf in the other ear already, stomped away._

_He knew he had to do something, but his whole world was a throbbing, silent, hell. Yet Ian rolled onto his knees and forced himself up. Tried to stop the two men from leaving through the front door, into the evening rain, with Mandy._

Ian groaned, pulling himself up by the counter top with one arm, the other clutched his stomach, where blood spread quickly from the wound Ian held. Once up, Ian fell backward into the counter, trying not to go down on his knees. He dug through his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, by as he dialed 911, Ian was relieved to know that it would still make a call. Because they didn't have a land-line. All three of them used their own cellphones. And Ian didn't think he had it in him to search around for Mandy's.

Lip was gone. Wouldn't be back for a few more hours.

Panting, Ian held the phone to his ear and spoke with the dispatch operator on the other line. He stayed on the line with her until the ambulance burst into his already opened front door.

Hours later, Ian laid back in a hospital bed, nearly conked out by the medicines running through h;l is IV drip. Kind of sick at the sight of two bags of blood hung up around him, feeding his veins. The emergency doctor had removed the bullet, performed a minor surgery to seal up the damage. Now, two detectives stood in his room, trying to speak with him. But Ian was too out of it, so the doctor hurried them away. Ian's eyes fluttered closed. It seemed like maybe his eyes had only fluttered closed once and then reopened quickly after. But really Ian had slept well into the night. When his eyes opened back up, he looked around the room, finally setting his eyes on the figure sleeping in the chair nearest the window.

"Fiona?" he croaked, voice weak.

She jumped in her place. Although her face was hidden by shadows, mostly, Ian could see that Fiona was crying from relief. She ran toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Fiona held him for a while, cradling his head against her chest tightly, suffocating. Finally she let go and kiss his forehead.

"Am I okay?" Ian asked once released. He noted that the bags of blood were gone.

"You were shot," Fiona said, sitting on the edge of his bed and resting her hand on his knee, above the blanket. "Ian what happened? Lip said someone took Mandy!" she rushed to say.

Ian held his ear, face fading from shocked to elated. He smiled wide. "I'm not deaf," he said, just realizing. Although he could only hear from one, still.

Fiona smiled back and patted his knee. "No, they repaired some of the damage," she said, her pat settling down to a loving rub.

But the smile left Ian's face as the memories of that evening flooded him. "Mandy!" he chirped.

Fiona shook her head. "Did you know who took her?" she asked.

Ian darted his eyes around the room, trying to think. The men had been wearing masks when Ian first let eyes on them. During his fight with the man dragging Mandy, Lip had ripped the mask from one of the attackers face just before the other put his gun beside of Ian's good ear and pulled the trigger. "I can identify one of them," Ian said, wetting his lips and gingerly touching the needle in his arm. "But I didn't recognize him," he said and shook his head.

Fiona looked toward the door. "Think you could talk to the cops?" she said and looked back at Ian. "Are you awake enough now?"

He was, and he did, soon after Fiona stepped out of the room and rang one of the detectives. The next day, as Ian sat with a distraught Lip, the detectives brought in a sketch artist. The woman stared intently at the paper and pencil in her hand as Ian described the unmasked man. Tall. Average build. Maybe even a little husky. He'd had a slight double chin. His face was square. His eyes were dark brown. He was some kind of Hispanic. Had a thin mustache and a sole patch. His left eyebrow was partially tattooed on. His nose was straight and broad. He had a hole below the center of his bottom lip, probably from a previous piercing. His hair was shaggy and hug around his ears. But it was also curly. He had scars on his face, Ian said. "You know, like the ones some people get from breaking out too much when their young?" he added. And there had been an earring in the top of his right ear. Although maybe it had been just a cuff.

The detectives thanked Ian after the sketch artist confirmed the photo with the redhead. They left soon after. Ian had been hopeful when the detectives left. So had Lip. But after another week passed and September rolled around, Ian wasn't so hopeful anymore. There had been no sighting of the man Ian had described. Mandy hadn't been seen, either. They couldn't even identify the man's name. Not until the end of September's first week. But when they told it Ian and Lip, trying to see if maybe the name rang any bells, Ian could only shake his head along with his brother. Ian didn't know anyone with that name. To his knowledge, he had never met the guy.

The case continued and Lip spent more time off work, sleeping at the Alibi. Ian was finally sent home.

The leaves were starting to change color.


	37. Chrissy

Mickey walked out of the jailhouse, shrugging on a jacket he had taken from a cellmate over the black tank-top he had been wearing upon his arrest two months prior. They had given him all of his belongings that had been on him that day. So naturally, even Mickey was feeling a little dirty in the old shorts and top. They were rank with stale beer smell and musk. The shirt was actually kind of stiff. Mickey tried to ignore this as he walked through the gates, a free man. Free from the law but not Julio. The first thing crossing his mind was whether or not he should actually go to Christopher's. Here he was, stuck in Indianapolis, afraid to go back to his storage and find his wallet. Unable to simply stowaway on the bus because it was early daytime. Didn't really want to wait around the city like a sitting duck. Nowhere to fucking go, and eyes probably watching him right now.

So, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts, Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and marched on, no destination in mind yet. They weren't going to gun him down. He knew that much. Not because Julio and his crew were afraid of being seen in the broad daylight or because they didn't want to kill Mickey, but because Brenda had been by to visit him a few times since the first, promising Mickey that Julio just wanted to talk. Mickey was no fool, though. He knew that, while he wasn't going to be shot on the sidewalk, he was a dead man if he actually went to see Julio at Christopher's. He wasn't sure what Julio had up his sleeve. He didn't want to find out. But as he rounded a corner, waiting for the street sign to given walking permission, Mickey figured he didn't have much of a choice.

The man waiting on the other side of the street grinned at Mickey and walked across quickly, hand on the inside of his jacket, ready for Mickey to run. The light had not even turned green. Mickey stood there, terrified but not willing to show it. He would die with dignity, god damn it. He would die seemingly unafraid. Mickey swallowed hard and the tall, slender man stepped up to him.

Crooning down at Mickey, his beak nosed nostrils flaring in anticipation, the man used his free hand to comb over his sleeked back, jet black hair. His green eyes bore into Mickey, daring him. He smiled, friendly.

Mickey nodded. "Chrissy," he greeted. "Julio having you play fetch?"

Christopher laughed and rubbed his nose, sniffing in defiance. "No," he said, still smiling, "that's. . .was your job."

Mickey faltered, staring now at Christopher's tucked away hand. He thumbed his bottom lip, still staring. Not meeting Christopher's gaze. Finally he spoke, his voice tight and his teeth bared. "You going to fucking shoot me or stand around holding your dick all day?" he snarled. "Get on with it, already!"

Christopher laughed and let lose the object in his jacket. He folded his hands ever so smugly in front of his lap. "Just making sure you know not to try anything," he said, winking once Mickey looked up at him. He cleared his throat and pointed to the car parked across the street, all to itself. "Come on, Mickey," he said, suddenly serious. "Let's get on with this." he grabbed the back of Mickey's shirt and held it firmly as mickey walked toward the car, jaywalking.

Mickey's heart raced as he neared the passenger door. He forced himself to keep breathing as Christopher opened the door and slammed it once Mickey was inside. After Christopher got in and began the long drive back to his place, Mickey closed his eyes and rested back in the seat, preparing himself for things to come. He tried to slow his breathing after being startled by Christopher blasting the radio with no warning. Watching the buildings go by, Mickey tried to picture everything he had done with his life up until this point. He hated what he saw and decided to stop. Finally Christopher stopped the car. Mickey furrowed his brow when he looked out of the window and saw that the stopping place was not Christopher home. He turned to the Italian and looked him over. Christopher was gripping the wheel, frowning deep enough to break his jaw. Mickey wondered briefly if maybe Christopher was just going to shoot him. A mercy killing, maybe.

"Get out," Christopher said, sudden and guarded.

Mickey reached for the handle, still watching Christopher. "What are you doing, Chrissy?" Mickey asked, or rather, growled.

Christopher turned his sharp eyes at Mickey, and licked his upper teeth. "Don't fucking make me repeat myself," he said. "I might just change my mind."

Confused, Mickey popped open the door and stepped out. He left the door open and looked back in at Christopher. Who wasn't moving. But was studying the dashboard, looking torn. His heart beat slowly now, then fast, then slow again. Mickey wondered if he was having a heart attack. Finally Christopher looked back out at Mickey. Without warning, the other man reached over and slammed the door closed once more. He fingered the automatic lock by his window until the passenger window was down. Mickey staid in place, unsure of what the hell was going on. Was he maybe going to be done away with execution style? Run over? He swallowed hard as Christopher opened his mouth and said, "Julio wants back what's his. We found your storage. The stuff wasn't there. Where is it, Mick?"

Mickey stared at Christopher, eyes wide, mouth a gape. "I don't have it," he said.

"Julio kind of figures, since there was a dead guy in there, maybe he tried to take it. Maybe you hid it somewhere else after you offed him," Christopher said, wishy-washy.

Mickey snorted and put his hands on the car, leaning back into the window. "What the fuck is this, Christopher?" he barked.

Christopher leaned back in the seat and let go of the wheel. He wetted his lips and stared straight ahead. "He wants to torture it outta you, Mickey," he said. "You know Julio. He doesn't give a rats ass about that heroin, not no more. It's the principal, now."

"So what? What the hell is this you're doing?" Mickey asked, face scrunched, angry and confused. Wishing this was over.

"You're like a brother to me Mickey," Christopher said, leaning toward Mickey's window. He gripped the sill, hands beside of Mickey's. "I figure, you're gonna die," he said, looking at Mickey straight on, "you might as well die unafraid."

Mickey knitted his brow, more confused now than ever. He opened his mouth, but never got the words out as Christopher grabbed his arm, twisted it over, and flicked a hidden razor blade down Mickey's forearm. Instead, Mickey gasped, slipped a little to his knees and stared at Christopher in shock. Still holding onto the man's arm.


	38. Wake Up Call

This made the second time Mickey had ever woken up in a hospital hooked up to bags of blood. His vision was blurry as he looked around him. Finally it came to focus and he groaned, trying to move his arm. He looked down at it, bringing it in front of his line of sight. His arm was wrapped in thick bandaging. Mickey could feel the stitches beneath itching him horribly. They were tight and they stung. His arm throbbed, aching. Mickey felt weak. So much so that he could barely lift his head. He let his arm fall back down, and tried to contain his roaring thoughts. Finally he just settled for screaming. Doing so at least drowned out his brain. It didn't take long for a nurse to rush in, tranquilizer in hand. Mickey shoved her off of him, instantly calmer now that he had someone in the room to give him god damned answers.

"Fuck off!" he snapped at the nurse, fighting her off until she eased back and held up her hands, needle included.

She was young, around Mickey's age. Tall, thin, too thin, and her blond hair was short and greasy looking. She looked tired. She spoke, and her voice was hesitant, airy. Her accent was think and Mickey didn't recognize it. "Look, mister," she said. "either chill out or I'm sticking you with this." She studied him as Mickey sat up and winced. "Lay back down," she instructed. "You lost too much blood."

Mickey did as he was told. Not because he wanted to, but because his body didn't seem to want to allow him to defy the nurse's orders. He fell back to sleep soon after. When he woke back up, the nurse was removing the bags of blood while another woman wheeled in a tray of covered food and a card that was addressed to him, hooked to a stuffed bear, unannounced. Mickey sat up, ignoring the nurse to his side and not thinking on the letter for now, and wrinkled his nose. He hated hospital food as much as the next person. But his stomach growled as the woman handed him over the tray and a bottle of water. It smelled good, but Mickey knew that was just deceit. The woman left without so much as a word, wheeling a large cart full of other trays past his door. Mickey watched her then turned to the nurse. "Why am I here?" he asked bluntly. And indeed, why? Christopher had slit Mickey's arm deeper than shit. Mickey should have bled out in that field.

The nurse, holding onto the empty bags and walking over to the hazard can attached to her cart, just outside his door, answered him as she walked away. But Mickey didn't hear her well because of how low her voice was. He rudely asked her to repeat herself and stop whispering. Stepping back into his room, leaving the door open, the young woman put her hands into the pockets of her pink and white scrubs. She cleared her throat, this time speaking up. "A couple found you near a park. Someone attacked you," she said. "Fortunate for you, also, that the couple found you time."

Mickey looked down at the card, thumbing his lip with his good hand. "They see who did it?" Mickey asked, cautious.

The nurse shook her head. "I don't know, mister," she said. "I wasn't the nurse on duty when you were admitted and the cops were here." She looked at him, trying to will his eyes to look her way. "Would you like me to phone the police? You can give a statement?" she asked, concerned.

Mickey twitched, turning on her then, eyes ablaze. "No!" he growled. "Don't you even!"

Startled, the nurse stared at him. She looked down at his dirty knuckles, obviously reading the words written across them for maybe the first time. Realization dawned on her. Mickey watched it wash over her face. She left right after. And Mickey knew he had to get the fuck up out of that bed and flee the hospital. No two ways about it. That bitch was probably phoning the cops right now. Even if she wasn't, he was still fucked because they had identified him, most likely. Mickey could not afford for them to come snooping ever, especially right after he'd been released from two months of jail time. It would look suspicious, even though he was a victim. They would snoop. They would find shit they shouldn't, and Mickey would be fucked. Still staring at the card, Mickey thought of another reason he had to leave quickly. Someone knew he was here, and it was probably Christopher. If the Italian thought for even a second that Mickey would talk, he'd end Mickey like he'd meant to. Or maybe it was Julio sending him a get well soon card. Not like it mattered. He was fucked if he didn't get out now and run. Problem was, Mickey was still feeling more than a little weak. Not to mention he was hook up to an IV drip and had no idea how to get it out properly. So he acted fast.

Mickey gripped the tape over the needle sticking out of the hand on his wounded arm. He pulled fast and bit down on his lip, growling as the needle popped free, blood squirting on the white sheets. He put pressure over the wound with his bare hand. It wasn't bleeding horribly or anything, so Mickey rushed to free up a pillow case from behind him. To do this, he let go of his bleeding arm and let it drip down his gown and lap as he violently turned and shook free the pillow. Once done, he tied the case around his arm tightly to help stop the bleeding. Mickey swung his legs over the bed, looking down at himself, pissed. Where were his fucking clothes. His back was cold from the opened gown. His ass was probably hanging out, for all who walked by his door to see. But Mickey didn't care as he ran around the room looking for his clothes. Naturally, they weren't in there. The nurse probably had them. Hissing to himself, Mickey decided that fuck it, he was leaving commando. They hadn't given much choice. Besides, he could always mug some clothes off someone once he was free and clear. So Mickey made do with what he had. He walked back over to the bed and quickly pulled loose another pillow case. This one he tried to tie around his wait, in order to seal shut the back of his hospital gown. But the case was too small, so he made fast and got yet another one, tied them together, an fastened them around himself. He ran into the bathroom of his room and washed the blood from his hand and random other placed on his neck. Stepping back, Mickey took a glance at himself. He looked fucking ridiculous. Like when he'd once dressed up as spider man and tied his sheets to himself, trying to swing from his walls as a child. But it would have to do. So he left the bathroom quickly and went to the window. Lucky for him, he was only on the second floor and his window was in a groove right on a piece of the oddly placed roof. He flung open the window and put one leg through, flashing the pigeons hanging about. But he turned back, letting his curiosity get the better of him. Hearing a cart coming his way, followed by the sound of a police radio, Mickey grabbed up the car and fled. He hid against a wall, beside of some other random window and watched carefully as the policeman and nurse panicked at his disappearance. The policeman immediately went to the window, yelling. Mickey darted. He heard the officer following him, but kept on. Kept on even though his head was light.

It had been a feat getting away from the officer, but Mickey had managed to do so. Actually it had been quite the rush. Mickey had broken a random window and ran through another patient's room, only to race the emergency stairway up to very tip top of the roof. The officer had followed, almost catching Mickey by his gown twice. But Mickey had made it to the roof. And he was one lucky fuck today, because the roof to the neighboring building was low and close by. It was crowned with cars. It clearly belonged to the parking deck. Mickey looked back at the officer, laughing and flipping the guy off as he jumped to the other roof. The officer was not as brave as Mickey.

His landing was rough. He scrapped his knees and elbows. His his back pretty hard. His head spun. Mickey felt faint. But he knew he needed to get up. So he forced himself to his feet, grabbed the car that had fallen from his makeshift belt, and ran down the ramp to the next level. Diving between cars until he finally grabbed the handle of one that wasn't locked, Mickey fought to keep himself from falling over. Finally he got into the opened car and pulled the underside of the older model Ford truck open. He was pretty damned decent at a fast hot-wire job. Mickey didn't bother to buckle up as he spend down the deck, mingling in with the flow of traffic easily.

Mickey drove until the radio clock read three in the morning. He finally stopped at a rest area just outside of Hammond, Indiana. He flipped off the radio and turned off the car. He sat there for a while, just looking out at the dark expanse. His was one of the only three cars in the large parking lot. Perfect. Mickey really hoped, as he got out of the car and walked casually into the men's restroom, that one of the other people wore his size clothes. Or close. He'd settle. Mickey was fucking sick of the god damned gown bunching up under his ass while he drove. So he stepped into the restroom and stared at the back of a man using the urinals. The guy, taller than Mickey but only by a little, hadn't noticed his stalker yet. Mickey eyeballed the man. He was much heavier than Mickey, but whatever. The pants would probably fit if Mickey held them up some when he walked. The shirt would probably fit him like a sack, though. Plus it was yellow and Mickey hated yellow. But he wasn't going to be picky. Cracking his knuckles as he stepped up next to the guy and took a whizz, Mickey smirked. The man turned to him, did a double take at Mickey's attire, and zipped up his pants, stepping away slowly.

"Look, man," he said, holding up his hands, "I don't want any trouble."

"Too bad," Mickey said before decking the guy, still grinning, head cocked. His fist connected and Mickey let himself sigh, content in the sound of cracking bone. It was almost as satisfying as sex. The stranger didn't move, just lay there terrified as Mickey stripped him. Finally, after Mickey had dressed himself in the yellow shirt and black jeans, he hopped up and down, trying to fold the belt of the large pants a few times, hoping to secure them a little if the pants were rolled some. It helped. But not much. He laughed and licked the corner of his mouth, eyes dancing over the scared man on the bathroom floor. "You not even going to defend yourself?" he asked, spreading his arms. "Damn," he laughed. "and here I was worried." He spat on the ground near the man's head, just as the bathroom door opened and a thirteen year old boy stepped into the room. He looked at the kid, faltered for a minute, then went about his business of digging the keys to the man's car out of the jean pocket. The kid stared at him, frozen in place. Clearly terrified. Mickey thumbed his lip. "You see anything when you came in here?" he asked, threatening.

The child shook his head fast.

"Fuck right you didn't," Mickey said, smiling. He walked past the kid and patted his shoulder. As he was about to walk out of the door, Mickey froze and turned around, now smiling as the thought dawned on him. Chiding, he asked the man on the floor which vehicle was his.

An hour later, Mickey was pulled off the side of the road at a Burger King, munching on onion rings and a chocolate milkshake, curtsey the money in the bathroom stranger's wallet. He hadn't used the credit card. Was too smart for that. He sucked his fingers clean, burped, and began digging through the wallet, counting the remaining bills. There was about eighty dollars left. Mickey licked his teeth and dropped the wallet into the seat beside of him. He watched out of his windshield, figuring he would need to switch cars soon. Not until he was out of Hammond, though. Flicking his eyes back to the passenger seat, Mickey stared at the still unopened car. He kept his eyes on it as he reached out to the cup holder near the steering wheel and grabbed the basically empty milkshake once more. He slurped at it until it rattled, eyes never leaving the card. Swallowing, Mickey tossed the empty cup back into the holder and picked up the card. He wasn't sure where he was heading, but he was sure of at least one thing, now: wherever he went, it was going to be far the fuck from Indianapolis and Chicago. He thought about Mandy as he sliced the card open with the corner of his thumb nail. Thought he surely couldn't risk taking her with him, even though some part of him wanted to. Felt like he was deserting her. But it was for the best. Even though thinking that gave him a lump to the throat and chest. Besides, Ian's brother would probably help her some. If not, Mickey was certain that Ian would send money back to her from California. Mickey's hand still as he pulled the folded up piece of paper from the card, his thoughts elsewhere now. His eyes dropped and he frowned, face soft. He licked the middle of his bottom lip and reached up to touch his mouth. Fucking Ian Gallagher. Mickey cringed because he had actually allowed himself to let go. Had, for just that minute in the bathroom, let himself know. But fuck all if he was going to do anything about it now. He couldn't if he had wanted to. So Mickey pushed away his thought and unfolded the paper. Something slightly heavy fell out of it, onto his lap. Scowling, Mickey sat the letter aside and picked up the object on his thigh. It was glossy. It was a picture. Mickey's frown deepened and he picked it up and flipped the photograph over.

What he saw made his eyes bulge and his heart stop. His wind caught in his throat and he threw the picture down, hurrying back to the letter as if his life depended on it.

He speed read the letter, breathing labored.

'I want the money.' The letter read. 'I know about it. Now you know I know. I'll be in touch.'

Signed Marcus.

Mickey's face twisted with rage. He wadded up the letter and threw it violently against his windshield. "Fuck!" he screamed, banging his back against the seat spastic, just as he banged his hands on the steering wheel. Mickey cursed himself. He should have know Tony was up to more than just getting his grubby hands on Mickey's stash of heroin. Should have known Tony better than that. Shouldn't have bothered leaving Chicago without Mandy. Shouldn't have even gone back to Indianapolis.

"Fuck!"


	39. Regret

He parked his newly stolen car in a random deck and huffed it to the El. The section he was in was fairly empty, save for a homeless man and an older woman, reading something on her phone. Mickey looked down at the watch on his wrist. He'd found it in the car he'd taken back in Hammond, Indiana. The time was slightly after five in the morning. He had driven straight from the Burger King to Chicago, only stopping once on the side of the road to take a piss, once to hijack a new vehicle, and once to steal a better fitted outfit from a closed-for-the-night strip mall on his way into South Side. It had been a long, nerve wrecking forty minute drive. He looked up from his watch and out of the train window. Everything was a black blur, the occasional flicker of people and lights going by as they zipped to Mickey's exit. Mickey stood and exited the train, stepping off and into the early morning fog. He made his way down the ramp and pulled out a fresh cigarette as he stepped foot on solid ground. He looked around at the boarded up buildings and array of homeless individuals sleeping on the streets beside can of burning timber. Slowly, Mickey stepped over a few people and stood beside of a can. Mickey bent down, using the licking flames to light his smoke. He took a drag and began his walk. The picture in his pocket felt as though it burned. The thought of the image keeping Mickey's blood on a permanent freeze. At the same time, making his rage bubble.

When he reached his destination, Mickey stood across the street, looking up at the corner window, where a light was on. He stood under the dim street light, watching the shadows inside move about, sucking on his cigarette until it finished burning out. Voices screamed at each other from inside, arguing. Mickey waited. Not ten minutes later Kevin emerged from the front door, tugging on his shirt the rest of the way and coming Mickey's way. Kevin hadn't noticed him yet. Didn't notice him until he was standing in the middle of the street. Mickey watched as the older man's face warped into sudden surprise. Saying nothing, Kevin jogged across the street, cutting off a car. The car honked and swerved by. Once across, Kevin, looked down at Mickey, cocking a brow. "Where the hell have you been?" Kevin asked, frowning.

Mickey studied him. He thumbed his lip. "Who the fuck was she staying with?" he asked, his voice full of poison and knowing Kevin knew what he was talking about.

Kevin eyed him, already knowing where this was going. He exhaled heavily and gave Mickey a pointed look. "Don't get high and mighty," he said, "I didn't see you here doing anything about it."

Mickey scowled. His hand shot out fast, grabbing Kevin by the collar. "I left her here for your bitch to watch, and I want to know how the hell," he spat, "you let this happen?" As he barked this, he jerked the picture free of his pocket with his loose hand, waving it in Kevin's face.

Staring at the picture, Kevin's eyes widened. He shoved Mickey's hand off of him. "If you know who did this," he began, "if they contacted you, why aren't you going to the police?"

His breathing was labored. Mickey was itching to hit something. But he honestly didn't want to take out his frustration on Kevin. Maybe a little, he did. So he spat on Kevin's shoe. "I just got out of god damned jail," he said, wiping stray spit from his chin. "And let me fucking tell you," he laughed, "I count myself  _really_ fucking lucky that the Indianapolis police department have their thumbs wedged up their asses. The shit that's going on with me," he glared, face inches from Kevin's, "will put me back in a hole for life. I can't afford to bring the cops in on this!"

Kevin rubbed his goatee. He looked down the street as a school bus stopped by the local stop. Finally he turned his eyes back to Mickey, who was staring at the photograph, pained. "Well," he said, "Mickey, I hate to tell you, but they already are."

Mickey stuffed the photo back into his pocket. "What?" he bit.

Kevin shook his head. "What eelse were we supposed to do?" he barked, throwing his hands out, agitated. But Mickey was already storming off. Kevin chased after him. "Hey!" he called. "Where are you even going?"

"Fuck you!" Mickey yelled over his shoulder.

Kevin caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder, spinning Mickey around. Mickey's eyes bugged out and he bared his teeth. His fist connected with Kevin's jaw. Unsuspecting, Kevin yelped and stumbled back; he held his chin, spitting blood on the ground, his mouth red. "What the hell?" Kevin growled. He came at Mickey, pulling the younger man up to him, eyes squinted and fist poised. He watched Mickey's jaw jump, and dropped his hand, shoving Mickey back. They stood there, staring at each other for a minute before Kevin rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Mandy was staying with Lip," Kevin said. "In the Hyde Park apartments," he added.

Looking at Kevin, Mickey's face softened some. He licked the corned of his mouth, staring down at his feet. Mandy had been staying with Lip after all. Mickey wondered how that even worked. He sighed, remembering the oldest Gallagher boy's reaction to Mandy's freak out that day in the hospital. All those times Lip came into the Alibi, having just gone to see Mandy and inform Mickey of how she was doing. Because Mickey hadn't been able to visit at first. Not for a while. He rubbed the back of his neck. Looking up at Kevin once more, he asked the apartment number.

"Why?" Kevin asked, eying Mickey, wary. "What are you planning on doing?"

"Having a fucking tea party!" Mickey snarled. "What's the fucking address?"

Kevin sighed. "I'm going to regret this," he said to himself.

Mickey laughed sarcastically. "You fucking owe me," he reminded Kevin, just before Kevin gave in, giving Mickey the apartment number.


	40. Fuck Up

Part Four: Ransom

His train had been forced to stop for a while for some fucking reason. So unfortunately, by the time Mickey made it to the Hyde Park Apartments, it was almost six o'clock in the morning. Worse than that, Mickey was feeling hazy from lack of sleep. Rubbing at his eyes, Mickey plopped down on a bench across the street from the apartments. He rubbed his face, stubble rough against his palms. His eyes were heavy, and Mickey shook himself to stay awake. One solution was to take off the thin jacket he wore, so that he was only wearing a blue wife-beater and his jeans. Skin pricking instantly at the chilly morning air, Mickey rubbed his arms and stood up, hopping to get his blood going. Once he felt steadier, Mickey marched across the street and through the brush around the supposed safety gate. He hopped the fence and rounded the pool area to the walk between the numerous amount of brick buildings. He walked for what probably seemed forever because being a little cold wasn't helping Mickey stay awake, really. His body wanted to give out. Finally Mickey reached the number Kevin had given him. Mickey raised his brows, looking over the place in front of him. It was fucking nice. Shit.

Mickey remembered being here once with his mother, when he had been about six. He had swam while she visited who she claimed was a friend. Now Mickey thought about what she had been wearing and knew his mother's friend had been a john. But he didn't like to think about his mother being a prostitute, so he shuttered the thoughts. Clearing his throat, Mickey stepped up to the door and knocked loudly. Banged. He was probably pissing the neighbor off. Mickey stopped when he hear footsteps approaching and a voice calling for him to knock it off. But the voice was muffled and Mickey couldn't make it out. He assumed it was Lip; who the fuck else would it be. So his shock was warranted when the door flung open and a very sleepy, very agitated Ian Gallagher stared back at Mickey, blinking and rubbing his eye. The red head was confused, as was Mickey. Ian looked unbelieving. Also very disheveled; his hair a muck and his eyes and lips puffy; one cheek red from a hand print where he had obviously been sleeping on his arm. He parted his lips, still blinking hard. Mickey didn't bother masking his surprise.

"Scott?" Ian asked, groggy. He then shook his head. "Mickey?"

Mickey frowned. "Who the fuck's Scott?" he asked, voice sharp. He flinched at the jealousy in his voice, wishing he could take it back.

Ian's eyes popped open fully and a look of what Mickey could only describe as jubilation crossed the freckled face before him. Mickey scowled at the expression and took a step back, still confused. He wondered briefly if perhaps he was dreaming, perhaps had fallen asleep on the bench.

"Mickey!" Ian piped. He bounced on his toes, arms holding both sides of the door frame as he took in all of Mickey.

"Put a lid on it!" Mickey snapped, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling exposed.

Ian shook his head and let go of one side of the frame long enough to rub his eyes again. He coughed into his fist and gained composure. "I thought you," he paused, looked wary of the words falling from his mouth, "I thought you were dead."

Rubbing his bottom lip, Mickey watched Ian with guarded eyes. "So far as as some people know," he said, "I am."

Ian knitted his brow and stepped aside. "Get in here," Ian said, looking out past Mickey to the two women jogging around the complex.

Uncrossing his arms, Mickey obliged. He stared at Ian as the younger man locked the door back and straightened out his t-shirt and boxers. "You always answer the door half naked?" Mickey asked, murmuring awkwardly. He hated that inflexion in his tone as well. Ian grinned, breathing out a chuckle that Mickey heard only because the apartment was so silent. He looked Ian over despite himself, finally getting control, licking the corner of his mouth and thumbing his lip again. "Lip home?" he asked, looking away from Ian now.

Ian huffed. "Seriously?" he barked, the grin fleeing his face. "You run off and suddenly you're back like everything's copacetic?"

Scowling, Mickey glanced around the apartment. "No," Mickey spat. "Everything fucked, that's why I'm back."

Ian breathed through his mouth, suddenly fuming as he licked his incisor then pursed his mouth. "Yeah, he's home. Why?" he sneered.

"I'm going to beat the shit out of him," Mickey hissed. "That's why!" Mickey felt a rush of anger and something he couldn't quite place. The apartment smelled like Mandy and his guts were churning. But Mickey's back arched and he whirled around, forgetting his worries and Ian as a voice rang out behind him, via the hallway.

"Look who finally decided to show back up," Lip said lowly as Mickey spun around. Lip stood dead center of the hallway, arms crossed over his bare chest and a deep frown on his face. The light spilling in from all of the un-curtained windows illuminated the worry lines on his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

Mickey stared at him without a word. Honestly, he was unsure how to pan this one out. He had mixed feelings.

Lip shook his head and laughed cruelly. "Do you even know what's been going on?" he asked, words full of acid.

Yes, he fucking did. Of course he did. Mickey's skin turned hot and he bared his teeth at Lip. Mickey stalked toward Lip despite Ian's grabbing for Mickey's shirt to stop him. He stepped up to Lip and squinted his eyes, clenching his fist around the picture in his pocket. He flung it out in Lip's face, loving the surprise that washed over Lip when he scrambled to catch the flying object. Mickey chewed his chapped lips as the other man looked at the photograph, face falling into despair.

"Holy shit," Lip breathed. He looked up at Mickey then and his eyes turned hard. "You know who took her?"

Ian stepped between them, but as he seemed about to take Mickey's side, he flipped course and turned to stare at Mickey when Lip handed him the picture.

"Who?" Ian asked, his voice shocked and soft as he stared at Mickey with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Mickey looked away from Ian's face, rubbing his knuckles as he glared at Lip. "Guy I used to know," he said bluntly.

Reaching out, Ian took the picture from Lip, then rubbed his face in obvious despair. He ran his fingers through his long hair. And Mickey wished Ian had kept his fucking beautiful mouth shut. Wished that more than he wished he didn't see Ian that way. "Does this have anything to do with—'' Ian tried to speak, but Mickey cut him off.

Mickey's eyes were wide and on edge as he reached out and clamped his hand over Ian's mouth, his face too close to the redhead's and his eyes crazy, lips pulled back into a snarl to end all. "You shut your god damned mouth!" he yelled through bared teeth, gripping the sides of Ian's face as he shut the man's mouth for him. Enough force behind his grasp to leave bruises as his fingers dug into Ian's flesh.

Lip reacted almost as fast as the words left Mickey, almost as fast as Ian bit down on Mickey's hand, his eyes hurt and shocked, also regretful. His fist hit Mickey in the side, and Lip's face was enraged as he knocked Mickey off of Ian, running at him and grabbing the shorter man around the wait. He drove Mickey against the wall of the hallway, knocking down and breaking the frame for some weird painting. Lip punched at Mickey's waist, still bent against him, as Mickey tried to fight him off. Ian came at the two, trying to defuse the battle, but was instead met with Mickey's elbow on accident as the two fumbled around and fell through Ian's opened bedroom door. Ian screamed for them to stop as Lip held Mickey down and punched him in the face.

The ex-con yelped, his reaction time slow because of the exhaustion he couldn't shake. After all, he had been awake for more than twenty four hours now. Since hours before being let out of the joint, due to his fucking nerves. The sleep he had gotten in the hospital didn't count, since it had been forced. But he fought back with all he could muster, taking more punches than he probably threw. Until finally Ian kicked Lip off of Mickey.

Panting, Lip shoved Ian away, his hands going through his curly hair as he stepped back and stared down at Mickey. Mickey rolled up on his knees, spitting blood on the carpet. He wiped the blood from his chin and tried to catch his breath. His arm stung like a son-of-a-bitch. He hissed and looked down at it, seeing fresh blood spread out around the white bandages. Lip pointed down at him after picking up a random shirt from Ian's floor and putting it on. "Fuck you, Mickey Milkovich," Lip said, voice thundering. "I swear to God I will gut you myself if your being such a complete fuck up got Mandy killed!" With that, Lip stormed out of the room.

Mickey shook his head, holding tightly to his wounded arm. He listened as Ian chased after his brother. They argued. But Mickey couldn't make out what was being said. He heard the front door slam. Soon after, Ian stepped back into the door way. By this time, Mickey had gotten up and plopped down on the messy futon and bunched up comforter. He was cradling his arm, breathing still labored, taking sharp intakes through bared teeth as pain shot through his arm. It throbbed something awful. Like it had been ripped apart. And probably it had. But he looked up at Ian standing in the doorway, his pale, freckled arms crossed over his white shirt. Ian was frowning and the look in his eyes made Mickey wish he had just taken care of this himself; had never set foot on Lip's doorstep. But he couldn't look away as Ian dropped his arms. His red eyebrows went up and he puckered his lips, then sighed, face soft.

"Stay here," Ian said, firm but gentle as he turned around. He held the door frame as he looked over his shoulder at Mickey and continued. "I'm going to find something to wrap your arm with."


	41. Push

Mickey didn't know why he listened. But honestly, he was glad that he did. Even though his attitude spoke otherwise. He jerked his arm away from Ian as the other man sat down beside of him on the bed and tried to unwrap his arm.

"Jesus, Mickey," Ian said, irritated and glaring, "hold still or you're going to rip it open worse!"

Jerking his arm away once more, Mickey flipped Ian off and unwrapped his arm himself, biting down on the unopened bandages in his mouth. "I'll do it my damn self," he said, words strange because of the objects he was biting on. Drool threatened to drip from his mouth as he winced when the air hit his now exposed arm.

Ian gasped. "What happened to you?" he asked, deer eyed as he grabbed Mickey's arm again.

"Let go!" Mickey growled, getting his back. But Ian was stubborn and Mickey was too tired. So when the redhead grabbed his wrist and pulled Mickey closer, Mickey just fell into it. He leaned forward, his back stretched a little as Ian pressed a wet rag against his opened wound. Ian dabbed at the blood, drawing his face up, clearly trying not to be sick. Mickey looked at the stitches when the cloth came up on final time. Most of the stitches were gone or torn. Therefore, the long cut up the back of Mickey's forearm was just hanging partially open. Even Mickey gagged, turning away. He coughed and wrinkled up his nose. The pain was somehow worse now that he had gotten a first look at the damage.

Ian hissed sympathetically and pressed the cloth across Mickey's arm. He applied pressure because Mickey was still bleeding badly. Sighing, Ian kept his hold on Mickey's arm and met Mickey's gaze. Mickey's face was neutral, his eyes searching Ian. Ian's elbow touched Mickey's fingers accidentally, and Mickey flinched, stilling his hand. Ian wetted his lips and looked back at Mickey's arm. Ian unconsciously, Mickey figured, rubbed his thumb against the material in a soothing motion. "Either you're going to the hospital," Ian began, still looking at Mickey's arm, "or I'm stitching this back up myself. You choose."

Frowning, Mickey took his arm and cradled it, staring at Ian's firm expression. "What are you, my fucking mother?" Mickey asked, smirking.

Ian laughed a little. "I just don't want you bleeding out on my bed," he replied, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

Mickey licked his lips and snorted. "Fine," he said. "Go grab a needle and thread, Martha Stewart."

Getting up, Ian laughed and made his way across the hall, into the bathroom. And hour and a few screams later, Mickey's arm was sewn together crudely. But he guessed it was better than risking a visit to the emergency room. He sat on Ian's bed while the redhead stashed the sewing equipment back in the bathroom. Sat there looking at the crooked stitching and wondering on how his life had come to this. Because in some fucked up way, the act of Ian sewing Mickey back together had been oddly domestic. Mickey had a stomach ache.

He was startled out of his thoughts when a wet towel slapped him in the face. Scowling, he pushed the towel down in his lap and watched Ian cross the room and sit down in a swivel chair, back facing the computer desk. Looking away, Mickey began cleaning the drying blood from his arm. Ian had already cleaned up. "You got any painkillers?" Mickey asked casually as he winced when the towel crossed the stitching.

Ian nodded.

"You gonna fucking offer?" Mickey snapped, cursing suddenly at the pain shooting through his arm again.

Face knitted, Ian dug through his pocket and tossed Mickey a pill bottle. Mickey caught it and shook the brown and white bottle, looking at the tiny blue pills flopping around inside. Only a few were left. He read over the label, not sure exactly what the hell he was about to eat. But knowing that he was going to swallow whatever it was. His arm was terrible. The prescription was Ian's. And Mickey was shocked that the medication and dosage was something quite serious. His brows rose and fell fast, but he didn't feel like asking questions. Really didn't care what Ian was on. The guy sure as shit didn't look like a pill head. He was far to meaty and toned for that; didn't quite have the too thin and frail appearance down packed. Plus, Mickey noted that the last refill was a month old. Ian had obviously not taken what was in the bottle very often. And probably not in quite some time.

Unsnapping the lip, Mickey shook a pill into his palm and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed without a drink, making a face at the foul taste in his mouth when some of the pill turned to powder. But he sloshed saliva around in his mouth and downed that too. After he was finished, Mickey threw the bottle on the floor and pulled his feet up onto the bed, hurt arm resting in his lap as he sat there, spread out yet curled in on himself. He stared at Ian's empty wall.

Ian rocked in the chair and it squeaked. He put his arms behind his head and studied Mickey. Mickey watched this from the corner of his eye. Finally, after a few minutes, Ian asked Mickey again what happened. This time his question was slightly more detailed, as he wanted the full story. Wanted to know what the hell was going on.

Mickey swallowed and fooled with a crease in his jeans. He sighed. Figured he might as well just spill all. Fuck, why not? After all, he was going to need Lip's help probably. So he stared at the wall and spilled his guts begrudgingly. When he finally looked at Ian, his own face threatened to fall because of how the redhead was looking at him. But Mickey held strong because be damned if he was going to be ashamed or apologize for any of his behavior. Be damned if he was going to have his fucking feelings crushed because of Ian's looked of disgust. Mickey was fucking used to that look because he'd been getting it from everyone his entire life. Funny that it had taken Ian this long to join the bandwagon. "What?" Mickey asked rudely, hard, lip raised. "You gonna fucking spit at me and tell me how much of a fuck up I am?"

Ian closed his eyes and shook his head, bending forward in the chair and holding the back of his neck, head between his knees as he propped himself up slightly on his thighs.

Cursing, Mickey got up fast and stood near Ian, face twisted and indescribable. He held his arm as he caught Ian's attention. He stared down, but his eyes followed upward as Ian stood too. Ian looked down at him, his face one that Mickey remembered from days pasts. It hurt looking at the expression and thinking about before. But Mickey squashed his feeling and came at Ian with spite and venom. It helped hide the ache.

"Go on, hate me!" Mickey barked, staring up intently at Ian while still holing his arm. "Trust me, I've been trying to make you hate me for years, Ian," he continued, swallowing the hurt deep inside. Trying not to feel. Hating how he felt. Wanting to chew his own tongue off. Wishing things were different. His mind was a fucking mess. His life was a fucking mess. And he was tired, making thinking straight even more difficult. "So go on! It will make everything so much  _fucking_  easier to deal with!" he practically screamed, spit spraying Ian's face.

And Ian did exactly what Mickey hoped: he came back at Mickey, finally letting loose all of his pent up rage. Finally getting it all out. Finally uncloaking the elephant in the room. He slammed the butt of his palms into Mickey pecks, starling Mickey so that he suddenly dropped his arm and stumbled back a little. Ian's face was red and the vein in his forehead pulsed as he screamed back, shoving a snarling Mickey across the room. "I do hate you, Mickey!" Ian bellowed, still pushing. He pushed Mickey and Mickey's calf hit the futon bed frame. "I fucking loath you," Ian hissed. And then he did something Mickey hadn't been expecting. Ian grabbed hold of Mickey's head with both hands and pressed his own smooth forehead against Mickey's sweaty one, saying, "But I love you, too!"

Mickey's eyes went wide. "Stop," he said, but even his voice was weak. His stomach lurched and his chest fluttered, stopped, then jumped erratically. He felt like he did the first time he had fucked Ian Gallagher. And damn it he wanted to fucking run because he hadn't wanted to feel that ever again. He reached up and grabbed Ian's wrist to put him off, but Ian was on a roll and much faster than Mickey.

"I try," Ian said, still yelling, but voice toning down. His forehead rubbed against Mickey's as Ian dug his fingers into Mickey's scalp. His breath tickled Mickey's upper lip. Ian closed his eyes and Mickey felt like his whole body was throbbing. "Trust me, I try not to," Ian said as Mickey's ass fell down harshly on the bed due to Ian's weigh and Mickey's weak knees. Ian's voice was barely a whisper when he reopened his eyes, practically straddling Mickey. "Fuck," Ian breathed and Mickey tasted the sleep on Ian's breath, "I wish I didn't, Mickey," he continued, lips brushing Mickey's startled, parted ones, "but I do."

And even though Mickey was still holding onto Ian's wrist brutally. Even though he was screaming inwardly for it to stop, Mickey found himself closing the gap, however small, between him and Ian. Unlike their last kiss, this was was hard and violent. Probably because Mickey was controlling it. Ian pushed Mickey flat, now sitting across Mickey's thighs as he leaned down, still gripping Mickey's head with one hand. With his other, Ian laid his hand out, pressing down on Mickey. Trying to hold him in place, it seemed. Mickey dug his own fingers into Ian's wrist and bicep. His teeth clanged against Ian's as he nipped and sucked on the redhead's mouth. Slowly, Ian's free hand crept downward and his fingertips slipped under the waistband of Mickey's jeans. Mickey groaned into Ian's mouth, bucking his hips upward in anticipation. Ian smiled against Mickey's mouth as he fiddled with the button. Finally he gave up and settled for only unzipping the jeans. Sappy as it was, Mickey found himself closing his eyes and grabbing the back of Ian's neck. Still smiling, Ian chuckled. Husky. His hot breath fluttered across Mickey's face and mickey almost lost it. Ian reached his hand inside of Mickey's pants, brushed past the fold of Mickey's boxers, and wrapped around his stiff penis. He rubbed the length slowly, continuing the kiss. But he stopped the kiss, chuckling again at the look Mickey was mad at himself for having. Ian pulled his hand free and spit in it before going back to the business at hand. He sat up only a little. His other hand left Mickey's hair and fisted the bed as Ian propped himself up only slightly. He stared down at Mickey's face as he massaged Mickey's dick. Mickey was glad he couldn't see himself because who knew what kind of fucked up face he was making. He figured it must be pretty fucking retarded looking, being as his mouth hung open and his eyes dropped some. But he was too lost to care. And besides, it wasn't a look Ian hadn't probably seen before, years past. On one of the rare occasions where they had had sex facing each other.

Ian just stared down at him, grinning, cat-like, his eyes looking more than pleased with himself. His hand was hot as he squeezed Mickey. Mickey chocked back a gasp and pressed his back into the bed, bucking his hips. He could feel the pressure building and tried to fight it back. It was a losing battle. His balls jumped and Mickey cursed, sitting up abruptly and shoving at Ian's hand. The only thing he had succeed in, it seemed, was startling Ian. The redhead looked at Mickey, puzzled for only a second. Only confused until Mickey moaned and pressed his forehead against Ian's shoulder. Mickey spilled, body jerking as he came.

Fingers brushed into his hair against as Mickey's dick twitched and his heart rate began to slow. He kept his head against Ian. Not to be affectionate. No, he kept his head there because Mickey was honestly a little embarrassed. He hadn't finished that early since adolescence.

Ian chuckled and Mickey felt the other man's body bounce with the husky laugh. "Damn, Mickey," Ian said, hand holding Mickey's head loosely. Too intimate.

Mickey jerked away then. He scowled and looked away, telling Ian to fuck off.

Ian laughed and tugged Mickey until the older man faced him again, even if it was against his will. "It happens," Ian said, shrugging. His thumb brushed across Mickey's thigh.

The friction was too much, as Mickey was still reeling. He jerked, taking a sharp breath and grabbing Ian's hand in an attempt to push the hand away. Not because he was mad. Mickey was still coming down to hard to let his usual brash behavior in. Really his skin was just too sensitive and it had been a gut reaction. He looked across at Ian, blue eyes guarded. And he frowned at Ian's cocked smile. He licked the corner of his mouth and leaned back on his hands, not laying down, just doing a partial crab walk. He watched Ian as the redhead studied him back. Mickey could feel how hot his face was and knew also that not all of the heat was because of arousal and climax. He was fucking blushing. Mickey wanted to punch Ian for smiling because of that. Or maybe Ian didn't distinguish. Mickey hoped for the later.

Ian's face smoothed over. He sat up a little straighter, still facing Mickey. Wiping his hand on the side of his boxers, Ian nodded toward Mickey's arm, staring at the red, puffy skin around the thread. "How's your arm feel?" Ian asked, his voice still quiet.

Mickey looked down at his arm and winced. It still throbbed. But the painkillers he had taken seemed to be helping. As much as was possible anyway. His sitting like he was, wasn't helping matters. So Mickey dropped his wounded arm down, then the other, now resting mostly flat, leaning on folded arms, the top of his back up a little. It felt somewhat better. "Hurts," he said, staring casually at Ian now. His flush wore off.

Ian cleared his throat and shifted his legs. Mickey's eyes flicked downward as he watched the movement. And obvious attempt on Ian's part to try and settle his erect crotch. Mickey sniffed and looked back at Ian's face. He smirked when the redhead cocked a brow.

This time, Mickey was able to last. Oddly enough, this time, Ian wasn't.

The pair flopped back on the bed, Mickey rolling off of his stomach. Ian looked over at him. Sweat was pouring from both their brows. Both men were at a loss for breath. Holding his forehead, Ian laughed, grinning and turning his surprised attention to the ceiling. Neither spoke for a while. Eventually, Mickey dosed off. But his sleep was short lived when he felt something hot and heavy on top of his chest and ribcage. Scared because of the dreams he had been having, Mickey jerked awake and almost sat up. But upon realizing what was laying across him, Mickey calmed down. Of course, the calm only lasted for a few seconds while Mickey registered the fact that Ian Gallagher was draped across him, his breath tickling Mickey's exposed stomach and chest hair. As he had aged, Mickey had gotten what Brenda once referred to as furry. He fucking hated the term. He didn't move, though. Instead, he let go of the winding spring in his stomach and took a few deep breaths, counting the spots on the ceiling. E cleared his throat of most of his grogginess. Mickey then lost a battle with himself. He guessed, though, that he had lost the battle the second Ian said those three words Mickey never wanted to hear. Didn't want to hear again, if he was honest. And it was a strange sort of acceptance. Mickey sighed, his waist caving and making Ian rise and fall. But it was also a relief, even though Mickey was hesitant to let himself admit it, even it was only to himself. He was adamant to admit it, even though it couldn't have been any more fucking obvious. Mickey chewed his lip as he thought over what it meant that he was gay. And where exactly Ian fit into his life.

He continued counting the spots idly. Finally he raised and arm and scratched his itching forehead. Naturally, he had made the mistake of using his injured arm and hissed a little. He laid it back down gently and stared at the crown of Ian's head. He breathed through his nose and Ian's hair blew about. He felt Ian chuckle silently. Felt the man's lips curling against his chest.

Mickey looked back at the ceiling. "Why are you here, anyway?" he finally asked. He'd wanted to ask earlier, right after Ian had pulled his dick out of Mickey's ass, but figured it would have ruined whatever moment they where having. Ian jerked up fast, and Mickey frowned at the look at shame on Ian's face.

Ian opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again before finally asking Mickey to repeat himself.

Confused, Mickey watched Ian sit back against the headboard, cheeks pink as he wrapped his arms around his raised knees. Mickey shifted about, still laying flat. He was too spent to move too much. "What?" he asked, smirked. "You deaf or something?" he teased. And he was still smirking, right until Ian winced and looked off to the side, appearing hurt. Mickey furrowed his brow. "Ian?" he said. "What the hell's your damage?" He reached up and lightly slapped Ian's bar shoulder. "Answer my fucking question," he insisted, impatient.

Ian took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I was discharged," he said as he breathed out. "Some religious nutjob stabbed me in the ear before I shot him." He looked over at Mickey, face betraying the wait for rejection. "So they mended me up and threw me out," Ian finished.

Mickey's brows went up. He watched Ian turn away again. Ian rested his chin on his arms, still folded around his knees. Mickey licked around the back of his bottom teeth as he observed the shut down basket case that was Ian Gallagher. He sighed and cursed under his breath. Mickey sucked at dealing with other people's emotions. Usually he just left when someone got emotional. Unless it was Mandy. But even then he was weird and unsure. So Mickey did what he thought would suffice. He sat up and patted Ian on the back. Only silence followed. Mickey stared across the room and out of the window-blinds. It was bright outside. Probably around eight or nine, he figured. His hand stilled finally and he withdrew it.

A soft chuckle broke the silence, and Mickey could hear the grin on Ian's face. Could taste Ian's amusement and change of mood. They stared at one another when Ian turned his head back around, lifting his chin and smiling. Mickey felt a twitch somewhere inside of him. It was unpleasant. So he scowled, then softened to a frown and looked away.

"What?" Ian asked, his voice confused. He put a hand on Mickey's chin and tried to turn his face, but Mickey shook him off, telling Ian to take his hands off of him. Ian listened for once. But the obedience didn't last. Ian frowned and grabbed Mickey's wrist. He pushed down on Mickey's hurt arm and Mickey yelped, turning back, furious. "What's wrong now?" Ian began, sighing angrily. He pivoted himself, so that his upper body was turned and slightly over top of Mickey, who remained laying down.

Mickey just looked up at Ian, still angry and yet pained because of his arm, which Ian had riled up again. Growling, Mickey lifted his head for a second, then slammed it back, rolling his eyes. He rubbed his face with both hands, frustrated.

"Mickey?" Ian piped, baffled, wary.

Lips curling up, Mickey shook his head. "Fuck," he sighed, still covering his face and feeling more than bent out of shape. "No matter what I do to put a stop to it. . ." he trailed. While he couldn't see it, Mickey knew Ian was probably donning a look of being utterly dumbfounded. Shit, even Mickey was surprised with himself. He let go of his face to see if he was right, and as he looked up at Ian, it didn't surprise Mickey that he had been. It kind of sucked how well he knew Ian fucking Gallagher. "You fucking wreck me," Mickey said without bane.

And maybe it was a combination of the drugs he had taken to dull his pain and his exhaustion creeping up on him again. Maybe it was because Mickey felt like everything he knew was falling to shreds. Or maybe he just wanted to. Mickey saw Ian's mouth open, clearly ready to ask Mickey what he was on about. Saw it open and acted fast. He reached up and pulled Ian down by the scruff of his neck, forcing his tongue into Ian's surprised mouth.


	42. Just Listen

Mickey stood in the bathroom, hands on the sink, staring intensely at his reflection. His beard was well on its return. He stared and listened to the voices just beyond the mirror wall, in the kitchen. Apparently Lip was back, slightly drunk at barely noon. Yet still rational, it sounded like. Calmer. Maybe. Mickey frowned as he overhead the brunt of the conversation. Lip had walked in on Ian and Mickey earlier, while Mickey had been fast asleep. Ian hadn't been and had been the reason Mickey was now standing around, once the redhead got out of bed and came to speak with his brother in the other room. Mickey kind of figured that they thought he was still asleep, given the volume of their voices. He turned on the water and splashed his face, ridding his eyes of the sleep built up in his corners. He felt better now that's he'd slept, but the medication he had taken still had him feeling a little out of it. He hoped the cold water would help. It did to a degree. He grabbed the hand towel bunched up on the back of the toilet and rubbed his face dry. He drowned out Ian and Lip's conversation about him to shift through the medicine cabinet. He grabbed out what looked to be a first aid kit and dug through until he found gauze and tape. He wrapped his arm sloppily then crammed the box back into the cabinet, not bothering to reorganize it or even close the lid, which had fallen to the floor. Mickey didn't really do tidy or being considerate, not usually.

As he sat on the edge of the tub, loosening the tape to make his arm more comfortable, Mickey tuned back into what was being said in the other room. He frowned. Kind of wanted to go in there and strangle Ian. At the same time, he was glad that he didn't have to repeat his long story to Lip, given that Ian was doing some of it for him. Leaving out the part where Mickey was also the reason Mandy had been shot and crippled. Which Mickey was grateful for the thought, but figured Lip was smart enough to put two and two together despite Ian's efforts. Actually, Ian was leaving out a lot, and Mickey guessed he was going to have to elaborate.

He sighed and stood from the tub. Mickey scratched at his bare side. He had only put his jeans back on because his shirt was covered in cum. Couldn't be bothered to find one of Ian's that fit well enough. So he stepped out of the bathroom. He patted himself down as he walked toward the kitchen, in search of the cigarette that had been in his back pocket before Ian had tossed the pants across the room. Apparently he had ninja skills because neither men in the kitchen noticed him until he stepped close and spoke. "You seen my smokes?" he asked Ian, pretending he didn't see Lip glaring at him.

Ian's brows went up and he looked from his brother to Mickey, and back. Finally he cleared his throat and stepped away from the part of the counter he had been leaning on. "Yeah," he said, digging through his own pocket. Mickey knitted his brow as he watched Ian pull out the pack of Camels and Mickey's scratched up Zippo. "Borrowed one," Ian said as he tossed Mickey his belongings.

Mickey scoffed and pulled a cigarette out. "More like borrowed a few," he commented, shaking his almost empty pack and counting what was left. He light his cigarette and took a a drag, blowing smoke at Lip's turned face.

Ian smirked. "Yeah well, your voice sounds like you could use less," he said. "Consider it a favor."

Lips tugging downward, Mickey stared at the redhead. He supposed his voice was a lot deeper, scratchier than it had once been. Some of that, though, was the damage he had taken to his windpipe during his great battle with Terry Milkovich. He grunted and sucked down most of the cigarette in his hand, flicking the ashes wherever. From the corner of his eyes, he watched Lip frown and scratch the back of his neck, still staring at Mickey. "What?" Mickey began, turning his attention to the young, more conventional version of Einstein. "You wanna go again?" he threatened. Mickey knew if Lip was looking to fight some more, Mickey would actually be able to take him this time. Not that he was awake and had most of his wits about him. Even if it meant taring his arm open a second time.

Lip snorted and rolled his eyes. "You have a lot of nerve," Lip said, warning Ian to stay out of it as he shot a piercing look across the room. "Give me two good reasons I shouldn't take the damned picture to the police and let them do their fucking job?"

Mickey stared back at him, fist balled up and body poised, ready. He swallowed a yell, settling for bitter snarls. "One," he said, "the guy who has my sister won't blink twice before slitting her neck if he smells a pig. Two, the fucking police will only muck this up worse. Three," he emphasized, leaving down on the table and putting his arm across Lip's line of sight, mouth dangerously close to Lip's ear, "I'll shove my foot up your ass if I so much as  _think_  you'll go to the cops. Don't test me, Philip Gallagher."

Lip exhaled and stared down at his open palms on the table. "So what?" Lip came back, less heat behind his words. "I'm supposed to just let  _you_  handle this?"

"If you're fucking smart as people seem to think you are," Mickey said sarcastically, still too close for Lip's comfort. So close he could smell the beer on Lip's breath.

Ian stepped up and neared the two. "Mickey, chill out," he said as he approached, stopping at Mickey's side.

Mickey looked over his shoulder at Ian, then stood up right. He took what was left of his cigarette and ground it out on the table top. Once finished, he sighed. Burning a hateful hole in the wood had released a little of his tension. His nostrils flared and Mickey grabbed his lower back, bending forward enough to pop his it. His back popped loudly, and he shook it off, rubbing his nose and staring back at Lip. Lip looked up at Mickey, frown deep.

"And you're planning on doing what, exactly?" Lip asked, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms.

Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and suppressed a yawn that sneaked up on him. Ian pulled out the other kitchen chair and sat down, elbows on the table.

"Mickey said the guy was supposed to contact him," Ian spoke for the ex-con.

"Hey, fuck off," Mickey said, backhanding Ian's shoulder swiftly. Annoyed that Ian was taking initiative to start a conversation Mickey wasn't ready for. He sighed and rubbed his lower lip. Not looking at either of the Gallagher men, Mickey stuffed his hands into his jean pockets because he didn't really know what else to do with them. "Guy's name's Marcus," he informed Lip, knowing that he had already told Ian earlier. "I met him during my second round of juvie."

Lip butted in briefly, asking what Marcus had been in for.

Mickey eyed Lip for a second, then said, "Seared his step father's ear off with a blowtorch."

"Fuck," Ian breathed, eyes wide. Lip mimicked the expression, but looked sick suddenly, probably from thinking of what could be happening to Mandy. Mickey sympathized, though only inwardly.

"They let him out," Mickey continued, having pulled up a stool and now sitting between Lip and Ian, "on account of he ratted out his stepfather's bootlegging business. Apparently the man made a lot selling movies and shit. Which is somehow worse than nearly killing someone, in the eyes of the law."

Lip snorted.

"Anyway," Mickey said, rubbing a hand through his hair, "he's nuts. Has no loyalties except to himself."

Ian closed his eyes and rested his head on the table, exhaling loudly. As he did this, Lip puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. "A true psychopath," Lip commented.

Mickey nodded, tongue in his cheek as he watched Lip mull over.

"What the fuck does he want?" Lip asked Mickey, meeting his gaze.

And at this, Mickey smiled ironically and stared down at his hopping knees. "Money," he said.

"You don't have any ransom money," Ian said, suddenly looking up, brow furrowed, confused.

Lip chuckled and patted the table. "No, but Mandy does," Lip said though his laugh.

Ian looked between them. "The hell are you two talking about? Care to clue me in?" he said, glaring at Mickey. Offended that Mickey had left out some details.

Mickey studied Ian's pursed face and licked the corner of his lips, then grinding his teeth together. He turned his relaxed face away and sighed. "My dad left Mandy and my mother his life insurance money," Mickey said, clearing his throat. He pulled a face and tapped his fingers on the table top. "Thing is," he went on, looking Ian in the eye, "I can't get to it."

"Why?" Lip asked, getting Mickey's attention. "And just when and how the shit did this Marcus find out about it?"

So Mickey swallowed his nerves and clenched his jaw as he told Lip exactly why he had left Chicago in such a hurry. He finished just as Ian got up and collected three cans of soda before sitting back down and passing them around. "Tony probably mentioned it. I think he'd been watching me long before he called in," Mickey said. He shook his head and talked with his hands, a trait he rarely let show. It reminded him too much of his father. "I don't know the specifics," he spat. "Just that Tony knew somehow and fucking blabbed. My guess is that's why Marcus turned on him." He closed his eyes and bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. "Even my brother wasn't low enough to knock off his sister for ransom money," he said as he opened his eyes back up. "Probably pissed Marcus off and shot him down. Or maybe Marcus just winged it. I don't fucking know," he sighed.

Ian stared at Mickey for a minute, lips parted and face drawn. Finally he bit both lips at once, wetting them, and asked what was probably on Lip's mind as well. How was Marcus going to contact Mickey?

"He's smart," Mickey said. "He knows a lot of people, has too many connection. He knows I came back here, and he's watching me."

Lip perked. "You think he's still in Chicago, then?" he asked. "With Mandy?"

And Lip was so hopeful sounding that Mickey hated to squash his dreams. Just as he was about to sound off, the phone on the counter-top, beside of the covered stove, vibrated.

Watching Ian knit his brow, both Lip and Mickey followed him with their eyes as the redhead walked over and picked it up, staring at the lit up screen. Ian looked confused, obviously not recognizing the number. He put the phone to his ear and answered, his tone giving away his puzzlement. "Who is this?" Ian asked, the lines in his face deepening. There was a moment of quite. Mickey began to stand up. "How did you get this number?" Ian bit, but his eyes were wide and lacked anger.

Mickey's back cracked again as he stepped toward Ian and snatched the phone.


	43. Dream a Little

It was both upsetting and a huge relief to hear his sister screaming in the background when Mickey's voice rang through the speaker. He figured maybe Marcus had him on speakerphone, given that Mandy was calling out to Mickey like she had heard his voice. Mickey tried not to lose his cool with Marcus. Marcus was like a fucking hair trigger. Sensing that Lip had approached and was reaching for the phone, Mickey shooed him off. So Mickey put Ian's cellphone on speakerphone, figuring maybe Lip would calm down if he could hear the conversation. If one could call it that.

Mickey had forgotten just how erratic that Marcus truly was. The man sounded as much of a lunatic as Charles Manson. Half of the time didn't even make sense. Except to maybe Marcus himself. And Mickey wondered if Marcus even understood himself half the time.

After Mickey insisted he was not bringing the cops in on anything, that Marcus needed to calm down, Marcus clammed up. All they could hear was Mandy's soft crying. Finally Marcus breathed heavily into the phone, fuming. "Do me a favor," Marcus shouted, "Be a good neighbor, Mickey, or I'll send you a love letter." There was a long pause, a slap, and Mandy yelping. "Straight from my heart, fucker!" Marcus went on shouting. "Do you know what a love letter is? It's a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker! You receive a love letter from me, and you're fucked forever! You understand, fuck? I'll send you straight to hell, fucker! And I'll send your cripple fuck of a sister right fucking there with you!"

Mickey bared his teeth at the phone, eyes wild, ready to flip out, but was shut down as Ian clamped a hand over his elbow and looked at Mickey pointedly. Mickey looked back, aware that Lip was panicking beside them and still trying to grab at the phone. He swallowed, finding it hard to tare his eyes off Ian. He thought maybe he had never been this angry and terrified before. Not even when he'd fought his father. Not even when Tony had called about the heroin. And not even when Chrissy had picked him up from jail.

Not long after Marcus's insane rant, the man gave his orders and hung up straight away. Soon after that,Lip went out for a walk and some air. This left Mickey and Ian alone in the apartment, Ian shaken as he sat on the couch, staring into space, and Mickey punching the walls. Not figuratively. Ian seemed to be ignoring him, until Mickey flung back and wailed on the refrigerator, denting it and hurting his bad arm. Mickey yelped and shook his arm. Fortunately, he hadn't ripped it open again, just jarred it too much. At this commotion, Ian turned in the sofa and, watching Mickey, told the shorter man to quit before Ian was forced to bring out the needle and thread again.

"Like hell you will," Mickey spat, plopping down in a recliner near the window separating the kitchen and living room area. He shook his legs and chewed at his nails. He spat the nails across the room because he was not the classiest and didn't give a shit if Ian wrinkled his nose as most people would have. Which oddly enough, the redhead didn't.

Ian leaned forward on the sofa and swallowed hard, frowning and shaking his head. "I have to go to work," he sighed, pushing himself up from the sofa. "Sucks how life doesn't just stop when you need it to," he commented, smiling weakly over at Mickey once he was standing.

Mickey licked his teeth, looking up at Ian, neutral. He cocked a brow and shrugged. His eyes followed Ian through the hallway until the redhead was out of sight. Mickey rubbed at his mouth, staring at his feet. Rubbing the letters on his knuckles absently. Ian emerged from his bedroom fully dressed, but in attire that Mickey hadn't been expecting. Of course, come to think of it, Mickey had no idea where Ian worked, so how would he know what was considered appropriate work attire. He eyeballed Ian's basketball shorts and fresh t-shirt. Mickey casually asked Ian where he worked, trying not to sound too interested.

Fooling with the lid to a refillable bottle, Ian stepped past Mickey into the kitchen. He used the refrigerator to fill his bottle, then opened the cabinet and rumbled around until he pulled out a box of flavoring and poured one of the orange pouches into his bottle. Shaking it until the water was a murky sort of orange sherbert color. Mickey thought it looked disgusting, but didn't comment.

Walking back up to Mickey's front, Ian pulled out his cellphone and dropped it in Mickey's lap. "If he calls again," Ian said, holding Mickey's gaze in his own, "you should be the one to answer. Keep it on you."

Mickey wanted to say yeah, no shit, but instead just pocketed the phone, still waiting on an answer to his earlier question.

"I'm a trainer," Ian said and looked as though he didn't like being watched so closely over the subject. "I work at the gym slash rehabilitation center near the hospital," he finished. Mickey just nodded, so Ian chewed his lip for a second before turning toward the front door. He stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back at the man rocking in a recliner that wasn't quite made for that. "You'll still be here," Ian asked, "when I get back?"

Slowly, Mickey registered the words he had just heard. After they processed, he stared at Ian features. Mickey was torn over being flippant or offended. He tightened the furrow on his brow, settling for the latter. "Yeah," he said, harsh, with bite. Ian flinched but only barely. Mickey had almost missed it as he said, "I'm not fucking leaving  _now_." Mickey thought maybe his face gave away some of what he felt because the sneer faded into an awkward uncertainty.

Ian nodded and held Mickey's stare for a few seconds before blinking. He left soon after.

Mickey dozed off in the recliner because of the damned medicine in his system. He dozed off and dreamed. Mickey didn't usually remember his dreams, but he figured he would never get this one burned out of his mind.

His dream was of being at the shoreline of Lake Michigan. A fair was going on somewhere in the distance because in the dream, Mickey could almost taste cotton candy because the smell was so think in the air. He waded the water, holding Mandy's hand. Mandy was barely past his hips. She was a child and she was walking. Her legs were fine. Although she was a child, it didn't register to Mickey as strange and she spoke as though she was grown. The tide was high and he had to pull his sister up from the water as she was thrown under. The sky was dark and it was raining. But the rain was bright yellow and slimy. Mickey and his sister were covered from head to toe by the time they found dry sand. Little Dream Mandy was chocking on the stuff. Mickey tried to help her, but she collapsed. At some point as he was rolling her onto her side and beating her back while she coughed up the rain, Mandy changed. The person he held when he flipped Mandy back over was Mickey's mother, as he best remembered her. But again Mickey's dream self was not fazed by the change, didn't even seem to notice. The woman in his arms coughed up the rain until blood came with it, and clawed at Mickey's arms, eyes wide. Mickey screamed down at her, furious. But what he was saying seemed out of context. He kept screaming that it was Tuesday. That's all he screamed. It's Tuesday!

It was pretty obvious why he dreamed what he did. And even the Tuesday part made sense, given that Tuesday was the day Marcus had set up as the exchange date. Two days from today.

The doorbell rang and Mickey startled awake. He stared ahead of him at the door, half delirious. Mickey was never one to be up and fully charged when he first woke up. Not for at least ten or so minutes. It seemed like his lagging got worse as he aged. Stress had done a number on Mickey and even he would admit it. Rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat of the sleep hiding there, Mickey shoved himself to his feet and stretched. After he felt more at himself, the doorbell ringing twice between getting up and getting focus, Mickey stared at the door again. This time when he looked, Mickey felt his heart jump. The pace picked up as Mickey moved toward the door. He expected the visitor may have something to do with Marcus, and as he pulled open the door, Mickey hoped he was wrong; he hadn't thought fast enough to grab a weapon and regretted this deeply.


	44. Launder

Mickey just stared. He blinked back at the man standing in front of him, who looked equally as confused. Knitting his brow, Mickey looked over the guy who obviously meant no harm and who clearly didn't hang around Marcus. Fear squished, Mickey studied him openly. He was taller than Mickey, just as stocky, and honestly looked a little similar to what Mickey was used to seeing in the mirror. Only this man's features were a little more broad and he looked clean, was freshly shaven. His hair was longer, too, and looked as though he actually put work into it. Like it was purposefully messy. Unlike Mickey who just happened to never wash out all of the gel he occasionally put in his, and thus ended up looking ridiculous half the time, like he'd only just rolled out of bed. And this man also looked friendly, unlike Mickey, who wore a permanent fuck off frown. Mickey, whose face made small children cry, smirked at who was obviously someone Ian had been fucking. Mickey kind of just knew.

He crossed his arms, unable to hide his amusement.

The other man cleared his throat and hardened his face a little. He didn't quite pull hardass like Mickey was proud to say he was wonderful at. "Is Ian around?" the stranger asked, shifting in place to try and gaze past Mickey into the apartment.

"No," Mickey said bluntly, looking at the guy expectantly.

Sighing in aggravation and obvious distress, the man before Mickey rolled his eyes. "Uh huh," he grunted. "And where I might I find him?"

Mickey decided that he hated the man's voice. It was too thick with a Minnesota accent. Mickey always thought that accent was the worst. Like nails to a calk board. Or teeth to a wooden tongue presser. But more than anything, Mickey just wanted to get rid of this guy because Mickey was still a little shaken from his dream, still felt torn apart inside because of Marcus. So instead of dicking around with the stranger's head, Mickey just scowled at him and told him to get the fuck off the door step and take a walk.

Unfortunately, the man didn't only resemble Mickey in appearance. He was apparently just as rude and stubborn. Unmoving, the man reached out, as if he anticipated Mickey slamming the door in his face, and held open the door. He smiled. "Want to try this again?" he offered cruelly.

"Not really," Mickey said. He sneered, gripping the door, still trying to close it. He was waring down the other man, he could tell. "I'm not really feeling extra friendly today, so how about you leave before I knock your fucking face in?" he snapped, finally pushing hard enough to knock the surprised guy back and slam the door.

Even though the door was shut, Mickey could hear the other man laughing to himself. "Tell him Scott stopped by," the man called loudly.

Mickey almost reopened the door and spat at the man's back, but resisted. Scott. What a stupid fucking name.

He was still thinking about Scott later, when Lip finally returned home. It was rather unfortunate, Mickey figured, to have so much on one's mind. His never got a rest, it seemed.

When Lip got in, Mickey was sitting at the kitchen table, fucking with a deck of cards he had found in Ian's room. Nothing was on television, so Mickey had settled for a few games of solitaire. The phone was laying on the table. He glanced at it occasionally when it vibrated. None of the messages were from Marcus, and Mickey was actually very disappointed in that because, for one he didn't like that Ian spoke to so many people, for two Mickey was dying inside not knowing how his sister was holding up.

Lip stood in the walkway, watching Mickey. Mickey ignored him and went about his business. He didn't feel like another fight. Not verbally or physically. Which was unusual for Mickey, but honestly, he was too stressed to think much on it. So he sat there, still only wearing his jeans, and thumbed through the cards, kind of pissed that this hand sucked so much. A glass of milk rested beside of his elbow, mostly empty. Still not looking at Lip aside from the corner of his eye, Mickey finished off his glass and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He sat the glass back down and went about the game again.

Lip cleared his throat and walked in, sitting down at the table, watching Mickey silently. They sat there like that for a while. Every once in a while, when mickey started a new game either because one was pointless or he had finished one, the younger man would look up at Lip and rub his bottom lip. Finally, Lip broke the monotony.

"I need your help," Lip said evenly.

Mickey looked up at him then, and put down the cards. He stretched out his arms on the table and rapped his knuckles. "You figure something out?" he asked.

Lip nodded. "I think so," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So far as getting the money goes, it's done."

Mickey raised his brows, chewing his tongue casually. "How's that?" he asked. Mickey had kind of been hoping Lip would pull through on collecting the ransom because quite frankly, Marcus was asking for way more than Mickey could get his hands on in three days time. Honestly, that had been one of the reasons Mickey came to find Philip Gallagher in the first place.

"I hacked it from the company I sometimes work with," Lip said plainly, as if he were speaking about weather. "But I'll need help covering my tracks, since it's such a big lump sum." He smirked at Mickey then. "Feel like running down to the Kash and Grab, getting some Money Orders?"

Mickey snorted. He wasn't too familiar with money laundering, since that wasn't really his area of expertise, but he knew enough about how people went about doing it. "That would take too long," he commented, hands resting easy now. "Linda's a bitch, anyway, and would ask too many questions. I have a better idea."

Mickey's idea landed him at the Alibi Room. Lip agreed that getting Kevin's help was a good thought and would be a fast way to get some of the cash legal. He still insisted on the Money Orders though, saying that the money needed to be broken down into too many transactions to be traced properly. So before stopping into the bar unannounced, Mickey went to the Kash and Grab to deal with Linda. She had begrudgingly given him a few Money Orders, all of which he kept securely in his pocket, knowing no one was stupid enough to mug a Milkovich, especially Mickey.

He stepped into the bar and wondered how Lip was handling on the computer back at the apartment. His thoughts helped Mickey drowned out the volume of the Alibi Room. He looked around, seeing a few familiar faces. It was odd being back in here, since Mickey had planned on ditching this place once he left the last time. His plans never really seemed to go as intended, though. Not even simple ones, like never fucking a man again. Especially Ian Gallagher. Especially one that made him think about shit Mickey wasn't comfortable with. Oh well.

Mickey stuffed his hands into his pockets and stepped up behind Kevin, who had his back turned and his nose in a packet of papers. He didn't notice Mickey, since Kevin was in his own world, standing over the sink.

"Kevin," Mickey said, startling the older man.

Kevin yelped and swung around. "Jesus!" he half gasped half yelled. "You scared the shit out of me, Mickey! Don't do that!"

Mickey licked the corner of his mouth, smiling at having riled Kevin up. He hadn't intended too, but Mickey was glad for the bit of humor, seeing as he was so pent up with worry.

"What do you want?" Kevin asked, gripping the papers in his hand.

Mickey flicked his eyes over the papers. He pushed his curiosity aside, and looked back at Kevin, serious. "You're going to do me a favor," Mickey said, not bothering to ask. Mickey rarely asked for anything, just demanded it. Because Mickey didn't like hearing no, and hating beating around the bush even more.

Kevin pursed his lips. "That would be?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"I've got about thirty thousand dollars in my pocket right now," Mickey whispered, leaning close to Kevin, "and I need you to wash it for me. Understand?"

Kevin looked shocked. His eyes popped a little and he blinked fast. "Thirty thousand?" he mouthed. "Where did you—" He frowned and pulled a face. "Never mind.," he countered, "and sorry," he shook his head. "I can't."

Mickey scowled at him. "I didn't fucking ask you," he snapped.

The papers Kevin held flapped about as Kevin waved them in front of Mickey's face, saying that he had too much riding on him right now. "I'm on fucking jury duty," Kevin said. "I can't risk it."

Rubbing his face, Mickey looked away from Kevin. One way or another, Mickey was getting what he wanted. He flashed his face back, sighed. "I've got until Tuesday to get this straight," he said lowly, looking at Kevin pointedly, brows up, face neutral.

Kevin studied Mickey. The bartender wasn't a stupid man, and Mickey knew he didn't have to tell Kevin what this was about. Looking back at his papers, Kevin closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Fine," he said, still shaking his head, "what'll you have?"

Mickey smiled then, sarcastically genuine. "Anything expensive," he said as he walked around the bar and sat off to himself. "Keep it coming." he looked out at the full bar, making up him mind. "And load everyone else up, while you're at it," he said.

By nearly closing time, Mickey was way past cut off and drunker than he had ever been in his entire life's history. Ordinarily, Kevin should have cut him off long ago, which was probably why the off duty officer near Mickey kept giving Kevin disapproving looks. At one thirty in the morning, everyone but Kevin, the officer, Frank Gallagher, and Mickey remained. The officer wasn't drinking. Hadn't been since about eleven. Even torn up this badly, Mickey had the sense to know that the officer was waiting for Mickey to leave, so that he could arrest him for being that drunk in public. Even off duty, this officer could probably do that. Mickey wasn't sure, but Frank had said so.

"You just have to know when to bend," Frank went on, bouncing up and down by the pool table side, his pool stick tapping the wood.

Mickey smirked, hanging back and leaning on the other pool table for support, his own pool stick standing up right in front of him, mostly being used, at this point, as a cane. "Frank," he said, "how you bend yourself has nothing to do with knocking that in."

Frank waved his finger, sipping on the last of his beer. "Oh yes, yes, yes, it does," he laughed. "Watch and learn, Mick. Watch and learn." As he spoke, he wagged himself about, aiming for the eight ball. "Right corner pocket," he said. And then missed completely.

Mickey howled with laughter. "Told your ass," he said. He wasn't sure when he had taken to playing constant games of pool with Frank Gallagher. Some time between realizing he had had way too many and then forgetting that again only to lose himself to an insane state of drunkenness.

Huffing, Frank tossed down the pool stick. He scowled at Mickey, bobbing his head. One hand on his hip, he said, "Well just you do better then. Go on," and waved across the table.

And Mickey stumbled over. The door opened from across the room, to his back, and Mickey was only vaguely aware of Kevin greeting the person who had entered. He eyed the eight ball and pressed his lower stomach against the side of the table to keep himself standing steady. Gripping the pool stick, he leaned over and took a sloppy aim. Even this drunk, Mickey knew he would get the shot. Because Mickey was awesome at pool. Probably because he had played it so much as a kid, with his dad. He frowned, thinking about his father. His father had always brought Mickey around with him when Mickey was little. Not because he had wanted to really spend time with his youngest son, but because Mickey had been a great pick pocket. So Mickey had been coming to the bar with his father even since he could remember. Had sat on the pool table side and watched his dad play. Mickey's throat seized up. His ind was fuzzy. He wasn't able to think clearly. So he threw the pool stick down on the table and grabbed at the side of his head, exhaling loudly and trying to maintain his cool exterior. "I quit," he said, backing up, tripping a little. He was barely aware of the hands catching him from behind.

Frank pounded the table. "Come on," he complained, "I have five dollars riding on this." He then looked up and smiled, suddenly realizing that Mickey's quitting worked in his favor. "If you forfeit, you have to pay up," he smiled.

As Mickey stood there, being held up from behind, not really even mentally in the Alibi anymore, just thinking about his dead father, he saw five dollars land on the pool table.

"Why don't you have another, Frank," Mickey's steadier said. Mickey felt the man behind him tense up as he spoke to Frank, felt his chest rumble against Mickey's back.

"Oh I will, son," Frank laughed, collecting his winnings. "Kevin, my man!" he called, waving the money high and smiling over at the bar, "Two more!"

Mickey's throat throbbed in tune with his stomach. He held his head, unaware of the pained expression on his face. He shook off the hands that held him and turned around, ready to throw a punch because he needed to feel anything but the emotion in his chest. But he was too drunk to stand straight, and wavered, only to be caught this time by the front of his shoulders. His blurring gaze looked over the man holding him. He tried to focus but couldn't, yet he did recognize Ian. And it was because he was suddenly so upset thinking about his father that Mickey scowled at Ian. Because Mickey had hated his old man. Really. He had fucking hated him. But every son, whether they hate their father or not, strive for his approval. And Mickey had probably done that more than any son ever. So he shoved Ian off of him, because being around the part of himself that he had always tried to squash, while reeling in memories and emotion of his father, who had been disgusted by homosexuality to the point of quite a few murders, was making Mickey sick.

"Mickey," Ian said, not phased by the weak shove, "come on," and grabbed at Mickey again, "I'm taking you home."

Snarling, Mickey jerked away and hit his back on the pool table, Because he was so sloshed, he didn't feel it, and kept on. "I don't have a fucking home," Mickey growled, backing away still as Ian pressed towards him again. And he didn't have a home. As far as Mickey was concerned, he hadn't had a home since his mother had brought Mickey and Mandy back with her to Chicago when Mickey had been three and Mandy had still been on a bottle.

"Mickey!" Ian barked and grabbed Mickey's elbow. "Come here!" he reached out and pulled at Mickey's sleeve, but Mickey was stubborn and also very inebriated, so he pulled free by slinking out of his top. Ian laughed, oblivious to Mickey's internal struggle. "What the fuck, Mick?" Ian said. "You need to lay down and sleep this off."

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Mickey hissed, still stumbling back and going for the door.

The officer near the bar stood up, ready. Ian must have noticed this, because Mickey was too far gone. The redhead held up his hand. "He's fine," Ian said. "I'm taking him home. You can put the cuffs away," he said respectfully, yet with a hint of annoyance.

Frank chuckled as he put on his jacket, standing by the bar. "You two love birds," he laughed, "look like you've seen better days."

Ian's eyes went wide. Mickey froze in place and Ian glanced over at him. He had barely opened his mouth by the time Mickey lunged forwards, eyes glassed over and looking more unhinged than ever.


	45. Monkey Wrench

It was kind of a blur. Ian watched as Mickey lunged forward. Drunk as he was, Mickey had no problem diving on top of Frank. Or maybe it was more of a fall than an intentional dive, given that Mickey even looked startled. Mickey straddled Frank, got in three punches to Frank's gut, one to the face, before the young officer seated on the edge of his seat jumped up and grabbed Mickey from behind. He slung Mickey off of Frank and dragged the ex-con to his feet. Furious, Frank Gallagher struggled to get up. He used a fallen stool as support. Once up, Frank made a beeline for the officer and Mickey. Kevin hopped the bar and held Frank back when the alcoholic tried to have his go at Mickey. Blood was running from Frank's busted mouth as he spat at Mickey and the cop. Ian quickly got a hold of himself and went over to grab a hold of Mickey's arm as Mickey attempted to assault the officer, ignoring Frank completely now.

"Mickey!" Ian barked, face twisted into concerned anger. His action stopped Mickey, but the cop shoved Ian away, telling the redhead to step back, one hand on his gun and the other fighting off Mickey again. Ian turned his attention to the officer, frowning. "He's just upset," Ian assured the man. He hoped his words would change the cop's mind, but doubted it even as they left his lips. "Just let me get him home," Ian continued, still holding onto a struggling Mickey. His hands were gripping the front of Mickey's shirt and Ian could feel Mickey's heart pounding out of control. He looked into Mickey's glossy red eyes and saw rage, hurt, and confusion there. His own chest ached at the sight of Mickey looking so vulnerable. Crazy, but also more vulnerable than Ian figured he had ever witnessed.

"I don't give a good god damn," the officer bellowed, jerking Mickey around and away from Ian, "If he's upset!" He pushed Mickey down on the counter, ignoring Mickey's harsh, slurred curses. "You don't get to attempt murder in my presence," he growled in Mickey's ear.

Mickey laughed, singing out a string of language to the likes even Ian was offended by.

Ian blanched at the officer's accusation. He grabbed at the officer's arm. "Mickey wasn't trying to kill anyone," Ian snapped. "What the fuck is your problem?"

Frank howled with laughter in the distance as Kevin forced him outside. Howled that it was about time the dog was put back in his cage. Ian rolled his eyes at that, frowning deeper.

The officer shook Ian off again and finally wrestled Mickey into handcuffs. Harshly, he pulled disgruntled Mickey up and began reading him his rights.

Ian guessed it was somewhere between 'you are under arrest' and thinking about poor Mandy maybe being killed all because this jerk was throwing Mickey in jail under false pretenses. He guessed it was somewhere in there that he hauled off and clocked the policeman.

Surprised, the officer stumbled backward and Mickey got away. Unfortunately, Mickey fell flat on his ass not two feet away, hands still cuffed behind him. His eyes bulged and his mouth twitched as he stared at Ian. They held one another in sight and Mickey broke into laughter at Ian's startled, regretful face. The officer stood straight and turned back to Ian, frowning. He shook his head, began to tell Ian that he had no choice but to arrest him as well. It was at that point when Kevin stormed back in and started arguing with the officer. Naturally, the officer shrugged off most of what Kevin was screaming. Except probably when Kevin said he would witness against the cop's accusation on Mickey's behalf.

Ian was startled at himself as he was placed in cuffs. He looked over at Mickey, who was grinning wickedly, still appearing as though he was near passing out.

The officer hauled Mickey up while holding Ian by his cuffs, backward. He dragged both men from the Alibi Room, brushing Kevin off, and escorted them to the station. Mickey chuckled some of the way there, until he fell asleep, slumped in the seat, his head unintentionally against Ian's shoulder as he snored softly. Ian sighed heavily lolling his own head back to stare at the roof of the police car. He could safely say he had seen better days.

"Well, I hope you're happy," Ian said to Mickey once they were seated in the station being booked.

Mickey was finally awake but still too drunk. He just nodded, breathing through his mouth and chewing his tongue. He wasn't even looking at Ian, who sat cuffed directly beside of Mickey. Ian was furious with himself and even more angry with Frank, to whom he placed most of the blame. But he was also extremely nervous because, while Kevin might have talked the cop down from arresting Mickey under attempted murder charges, Ian knew what punching a cop got a person. Had seen mickey suffer the repercussion once before. The offense was no worse for a juvenile than an adult. Ian sighed heavily and swallowed his fast pounding heart, still studying Mickey, who looked about to hurl.

They were separated after booking. Mostly because Mickey had gotten lucky; he was only being held until he was sober. Ian on the other hands had been issued a court date and informed of the severity of his offense. Which he had foreseen.

Ian couldn't help but curl into himself that night as he lay on a hard bench that was supposed to be his bed. Face devoid of any emotion, even though his insides were on fire. Ian fell asleep wondering how he was mentally supposed to survive a year of jail. Especially given the circumstances. He wondered if Lip and Mickey would be able to save Mandy. If Mickey would be able to save himself. If Lip would end up with life in prison, should the bank catch on to what his big brother was doing to save Mandy. Mostly, Ian wondered if he would ever see Mickey again.


	46. Black

When Mickey woke up, he was being thrown out of a jail cell that he didn't even remember going into to begin with. He followed the correctional officer out into the hallway and pressed against the wall as the heavyset, middle aged woman un-cuffed him. She took Mickey to a counter where he was given the possessions he had had on him the night before. His head hurt horribly. Mickey took the huge plastic bag of his things wordlessly, grunting as he was seen out into the sunlight and through the jail gates. To say the least, Mickey was extremely confused and also slightly disoriented. The last thing he remembered was talking with Kevin and downing high dollar shots with Frank Gallagher in a mock competition that Mickey had beaten the old man at. Mickey thought he might remember telling Frank about almost killing him once. After that was merely blackness. Like he had fallen asleep and just woken up. Strange, that. Apparently he'd had more than even he could handle.

Mickey rubbed his lower back, wincing as his hand touched a sensitive bruise. He pulled his hand away because of that and also because his left hand hurt like a sonofabitch. Looking down at his hand, Mickey spotted swelling and discoloration on three of his knuckles. Apparently, he mused, a smile dancing across his rugged face, he had busted somebody up enough to break his own hand. Probably why he had been in lockup over night. Mickey smirked to himself, wondering who the poor bastard he had attacked had been.

His stomach growled. Mickey immediately wanted food. So he walked away from the jail and headed to the nearest market. He ended up hitting a random small owned business and stealing two Honeybuns and an orange juice. Also a packet of Camels for desert.

After consuming his breakfast, Mickey walked into a Circle K and used the filthy pisser. He zipped up and went over to the sink, splashing hot, murky water on his face to try and ease his aching head. When he looked up into the cloudy mirror, face dripping and hair damp and clinging to his forehead, Mickey was shocked at how he looked. His skin was deathly pale and underneath his eyes were black. His beard had come mostly in. Truly, he looked of his past. Lifting his shirt, Mickey dried his face and exited the restroom. He squinted in the sunlight as he trudged toward and entrance to the El. Once inside, he stood before the ticket booth, digging through the plastic bag for what little bit of cash was left. He found a few dollars and purchased his ticket. Ordinarily, Mickey might have just hopped the entrance and boarded for free, but given the circumstance with Marcus and Mandy, Mickey didn't want to leave his freedom up for chance. So he grabbed his ticket and followed the hoard of people. He stood in the most empty area while waiting for the train. Once boarded and seated, Mickey dumped the contents of the plastic bag into the corner seat beside of him. He picked up the bills and counted, ignoring as random other items fell to the floor and rolled away. Nothing he had been carrying was important, anyway, except the money Lip had stole. What was left of it. Mickey counted ten dollars. Licking the corner of his mouth as the train came to a stop, Mickey pocketed the money and departed.

His walk to the Alibi Room was terrible. Being too hot had always made Mickey get a headache anyway, and the fact that his head was pounding before leaving the jail made his on coming migraine all the worse. He stopped in front of the Alibi door, holding the handle as well as his head, frozen, gritting his teeth as the dull throb turned to sharp stabbing pains behind his eyes.

"Fuck," Mickey whispered to himself as he took a few deep breaths.

What seemed like more than ten minutes passed, but was really only a matter of second. Finally Mickey braved the loud bar. He stepped in and took a sharp intake as his head nearly exploded because of the laughter and cursing all around him. Thankfully, today was somewhat quite. Mickey, still holding his head on and off as his eye threatened to pop forth, went over to the bar. Kevin had spotted him the moment Mickey walked in, and they held each others stare even as Mickey pulled up a stool and got situated. Mickey watched as Kevin gave the two other people seated at the bar an intense glare. The man and woman scattered, and Kevin then stood up straight, crossed his arms, and returned to staring at Mickey.

"Well?" Mickey croaked, wincing as his own voice vibrated inside his spinning head. "Where's my fucking money?"

Kevin looked unamused. "Would it hurt you," he said, rolling his eyes, "to be a little nicer to me?" He spun around as he finished speaking and reached beneath the packet of papers Mickey recognized from yesterday. "After all, Nancy" Kevin sighed, his voice betraying the annoyance he harbored, "I'm pretty much your only friend." Kevin pulled a yellow envelope loose and then spun back around, tossing it down on the counter in front of Mickey. It smacked the surface. He met Mickey's eyes with a smirk. "For fixing my truck," Kevin said, loud enough to have a few witnesses.

Mickey snorted. "You suck at this," he mumbled, stuffing the envelope under his shirt to be held down by the front of his waistband.

Rolling his eyes again, Kevin brushed Mickey off. He dug his pinky into his ear and scratched. "So where's Ian?" he asked, making a face as he dug inside his ear. He stopped scratching, sighing in relief. "They let him go, too, or what?"

His brow knitted; Mickey faltered. His head suddenly hurt worse, somehow. He looked off to the side, trying to remember what had gone on the night before. He just couldn't. For a split second, Mickey thought he remembered being in the back of a car, sleeping on Ian, but the thought was absurd. Or maybe not. He shook his head to himself and finally looked back at Kevin. "What the fuck happened last night?" he blurted.

Kevin's brows went up. He uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his slicked back pony-tail. "You really don't remember," he stated. "Yeah, you were fucked up," Kevin sighed. He stared at Mickey for a minute, and Mickey hoped the older man would just get to the point. Yes, Mickey knew he had drank too much. Duh. He must have made a face because Kevin stopped beating around the bush. Now looking somewhat concerned, Kevin leaned forward, close to Mickey, and said, "Ian played fisty-cuffs with the officer who arrested you two."

Mickey's eyes widened, but he quickly caught himself and checked. He closed his eyes and leaned on the counter, holding his head and forehead tilted downward. Still unable to piece together all of the events leading up to this moment, Mickey decided to just laugh with no mirth. "He did what?" Mickey began. "Punched a fucking cop?" He looked up at Kevin from the side, hands gripping the back of his sweaty neck. "Are you shitting me?"

Kevin nodded, lips tight. His brows went up and down quickly as he shrugged. "I heard bones crack," Kevin commented.

Mickey just sat there, staring, slightly slackjawed. Was this guy fucking serious? Surely Ian had not been that stupid as to get himself arrested and thrown in jail to the point that he was actually going to serve time. Wow. Mickey rubbed his face and looked back at the counter top, blankly. "Wow," he acerbically expressed his only thought, mainly to himself.

Kevin snorted. "Hey, I wouldn't go calling the kettle back just yet, pot," he said, shifting about, still leaning.

"The fuck does that even mean?" Mickey snapped, halfhearted, and looked up from the side once more.

Kevin frowned. "You've never heard that expression?" he asked.

"No," Mickey said, inwardly deciding that this was going to be a shitty day.

Kevin hummed in the back of his throat. "The pot calling the kettle black? It means-" he began but was cut short.

Mickey held up his hand saying, "I don't care."

Kevin just smirked at him.

"I get the gist," Mickey mumbled, shaking his head as he sat straight. He eyeballed the bottles in the cooler behind Kevin. "Just gimma a beer so I can get rid of this fucking migraine."

Yeah, this day was going to fucking suck. One, because Mickey felt like physical shit. Two, he still had to help Lip and wait around for a contact from Marcus. Three, Mandy was probably being tortured and that set horribly with Mickey. Four, because after he finished his beer, Mickey was about to set foot in the jailhouse, this time from the other side. Five, because Mickey hated the feeling of twisted warmth in the pit of his stomach, over just having heard about Ian's behavior. It really shouldn't have made Mickey want to smile, what Ian had done.


	47. Headstone

After curing his hangover the only way Mickey really knew how, by having a few beers, he went onto the El again. His previous ticket was almost empty, save for a few cents, and Mickey didn't really feel like dipping into his sister's ransom money, so he mugged a business man and took his wallet. Thankfully, this side of the El was fairly empty this early in the morning. As the stranger slumped against the wall-map, wiping his bleeding lip, Mickey used a few of the dollars to get himself another ticket, then flung the wallet back in the terrified man's face. Mickey laughed as the man flinched, yelping for Mickey not to hurt him. "Jesus," Mickey chuckled, eying the man's wedding finger. "Your wife know she's a lesbian?" And with those words, he began walking away. But he froze when he heard the man shuffling to his feet, and smirked to himself, turning back around. As he rounded the corner, the man instantly fell back to his ass, arms covering his face as a shield. Mickey just shook his amused face. Quickly he reached down and grabbed the wallet out of the stranger's clutching hand. "On second thought," Mickey said, "I'm still kind of hungry." So he took the remaining bills and threw the wallet down once more. This time, when he walked away, Mickey felt satisfied.

He stood in front of the door, rather than sitting down because, regardless of how empty the entrance had seemed, the platform for his line had been more than crowded. He wasn't sure why. But it had been, so Mickey was forced to squish between two robust women and their screaming children for his, thankfully quick, ride. Looking disgusted, Mickey shoved past the women and left the train first. On his way past, he accidentally elbowed a child in the temple and heard the mother cursing after Mickey. He ignored this and rushed down the stairs, past the thinning crowd. He stepped onto the streets of Hyde Park and hoofed it fast to Lip's apartment. Getting in this time proved more difficult, given that it was broad daylight and gated communities apparently had a problem with his appearance. Mickey guessed he looked suspicious. So his flipped off the gate keeper and started thumbing through the list of names on the call box beside the only entrance. Going in through the brush near the poolside was out, given security had now been called forth. Mickey rolled his eyes, locating Lip's name and dialing in. The call went straight to Lip's cellphone, and Mickey immediately caught wind of the distress in Lip's voice when the other man answered.

"Let me the fuck in," Mickey griped. "Before this bitch out here," he said this loudly, looking over at the woman he assumed was one of the landlords, "gets her head busted."

The woman he spoke of looked aghast and stepped back inside the office building, leaving Mickey with only the gate keeper and a security guard by his side.

Lip's voice laughed through the speaker. "All right, Jesus, Mickey, try not to get thrown in jail," he joked.

Completely serious, Mickey said, "You should have mentioned that earlier."

"What?"

Mickey frowned, growling a little. "God damn, just open the gates, Gallagher!" he fussed.

Lip was silent on the other end. The gates buzzed loudly and began sliding open. Mickey let go of the speaker button and began straightening up, fixing his shirt as he gave the gate keeper a pointed look before waltzing through the opening gates. By the time he made it to Lip's front door, Mickey was drenched in sweat. He knocked, irritated for so many reasons he had lost count. Lip opened the door, clad in capri pants and a black button up. He looked as though he hadn't slept. His hair looked wild and his eyes drooped with large black bags beneath them. His face was drawn. Mickey looked him over as he walked in. Although, he couldn't really comment, given Mickey looked just as hellish.

Once inside, Mickey plopped sloppily down on the sofa, legs up on the arm rest, and watched Lip approach. Lip crossed his arms and stared down at Mickey. "Have you seen my brother?" Lip asked, concerned. "He was supposed to pick you up at the Alibi Room last night. Neither of you came home," he ranted, veins bulging."Do you know how fucking," Lip spat, threw his arms up, eyes wild, "freaked out I've been? Where the hell is Ian?"

Mickey licked his tooth, staring up at Lip casually. He sighed and looked over at the turned off television, letting his face falter his concern briefly before sucking it up and tucking his emotion safely back into the pit of his stomach. Looking at the television as if it held life's answers, Mickey said, "Apparently he's in jail."

Lip scrunched his face, blanked a few times. "Excuse me?" he chirped.

Mickey shrugged. "He's in jail," he repeated.

Lip squinted, huffed, and stalked over, now standing at the back of the sofa, overlooking Mickey with murderous intent. "Jail?" he said, eye twitching.

Mickey shrugged again, looking away from Lip's glare.

Baring his teeth, Lip moved quick. So quick that Mickey didn't even realize he was being attacked until Lip's foot connected with his jaw. Lip had jumped the back of the sofa, landing on the cushion between Mickey's legs, still standing, and shot his foot out fast. Mickey yelped and rolled onto the floor, evading another kick. He rushed to sit up on his knees and reached out, grabbing Lip's ankle. Growling as he fell to his ass on the sofa, Lip struggled to get free of Mickey's grasp. But Mickey held strong, getting some leverage by pushing up from the floor and tossing Lip backward. Lip flailed his arms, startled and scowling as he fell halfway from the sofa, bashing his elbow on the coffee table. Mickey's hold on his ankle fell loose because of the fall, and Lip rushed to take control of the situation. To do this, Lip wormed on top of Mickey and held Mickey's arms over his greasy head. He kept his knee against Mickey's crotch, ready to inflect a blow. Mickey spat in his face and Lip wrinkled up his nose as the spit dripped off. Watching as Mickey struggled to get loose, face feral. Without putting a lot of thought into it, Lip rammed his forehead against Mickey's nose. Mickey screamed out and blood poured from his face. He looked up at Lip, startled and furious, but eventually still. Lip stared down at him, panting, his grip bruising Mickey's wrists.

"What the fuck did you do?" Lip snarled. "Why is Ian in jail?"

"Why do you assume it's my fault?" Mickey quipped back, his head pounding worse now than ever. His head spun and he wanted nothing more than Lip to get off of him so Mickey could puke and maybe feel a little better. "Get the fuck off me," he growled.

Lip heaved a heavy breath and flung himself from Mickey. He sat with his back against the coffee table and his legs sprawled out, holding his forehead because he had probably given himself a headache as well. Shaking his head, Lip looked at Mickey while the other man sat up and winced when touching his nose. Lip's face calmed and Mickey watched as his adam's apple bobbled from a hard swallow.

"How did you let this happen?" Lip barked.

Mickey snorted. "He's not my responsibility," he said, wiping his nose on his shirt, ridding himself of some of the blood.

Lip laughed sarcastically and let go of his forehead. "God, you're dense," he almost whispered before getting to his feet.

Mickey frowned up at him. Lip reached a hand down and Mickey swatted it away, forcing himself to his feet with no help. "Fuck you," he said, getting in Lip's face once he was standing properly. "Ian's his own keeper," he growled and pushed past Lip.

Lip jerked as Mickey brushed past, and turned around, frowning as he watched Mickey retreat into the bathroom. When water turned on, Lip sighed and moved toward the bathroom doorway. Mickey looked up at him, rubbing his face clean and continuing to splash himself. He had plugged the sink to wash his face off, and the water was cloudy and red. Holding Lip's stare, Mickey leaned down on the sink and chewed on his bottom lip. "I don't know what happened," he said steadily, calmer now and aware that he was letting his guard down. He looked away from Lip, to see his reflection in the mirror as he dried his face off with his hands. Fuck it. It wasn't like Lip was going to stone Mickey for being a faggat. Hell, at this point, Mickey was too fucking sick to keep up his tough exterior fully. With his face still damp, Mickey pulled off his now bloody shirt and tossed it into the bathtub. He rubbed his bottom lip, flipping around and pressing his back against the sink. He hissed in a breath as the bruise on his back ached. But tried to gain composure fast. "Kevin said Ian hit a cop," Mickey announced, face neutral. "If that's true," he continued, "he ain't getting out any time soon."

Rolling his eyes, Lip took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This is so fucked," he finally said, face drooped as he looked down at the floor. "Everything is so fucked," he went on, his voice betraying him.

Mickey watched this with sudden trepidation. He furrowing his brow when water came to Lip's eyes. Pointing, eyes wide, he snapped, "Don't fucking do that! Don't you fucking cry!"

Lip chuckled with no real feeling, and shook his head, face toward the ceiling, saying, "Mandy's probably—''

Mickey moved fast, he grabbed hold of Lip's collar and shoved him against the door. It flung open fully, and their bodies moved with it clumsily as it crashed against the wall. Face inches from Lip, Mickey sneered. "Shut the hell up," he said lowly, "She's fine. My sister's fine." He said this, and even he detected the note in his voice. The note that said he was also trying to convince himself.

After finding one of Ian's shirts to throw on, Mickey went with Lip down to the Jail to see the imprisoned redhead. This was of course after Marcus called to inform the both of them that he was watching their every move, that he would know if they were trying something tricky with the cops. So, as they entered the jail, Mickey could feel that Lip was as nervous as he currently was. Both were shaken after the phone call. Mickey's stomach was in knots. Lip looked ill. Mickey hung back while Lip went to speak with his brother. It felt odd being the one not in the cage. And being here when he didn't have to be certainly didn't sit well with Mickey. He fidgeted, paranoid the entire time until Lip returned. As he walked in and took his seat beside of Mickey, Lip exhaled. He didn't look at Mickey, just crossed his arms and chewed his chapped lips. Shrugging, Mickey hefted himself up and trudged behind a correctional officer, through two doors that only opened from the one side. The guard pointed to the empty chair toward the end of a long line of visitors using two way phones. Afterward, the guard left. Mickey's back tensed when the heavy doors slammed shut behind him. He stared ahead at the chair, pulled out for him. Probably still warm from Lip having sat in it. He took in a calming breath and tried to loosen up. Slowly he walked over and sat in the hard chair. Ian was on the other side of the glass, waiting patiently. Mickey looked at the redhead and felt awkward. A feeling he wasn't fond of in the slightest. A feeling he rarely had, unless apparently a Gallagher was involved. Keeping his cool, Mickey sniffed and picked up the receiver on his side. His hand gripped it loosely and he stared at Ian. Ian picked up his phone, grinning. Mickey bit his tongue. He didn't know what there was to grin about. Maybe Ian just hadn't gotten the taste of jail yet. It was bitter and hard to swallow. Mickey would know better than anyone.

"Hey," Ian greeted, his grin gone now, his face serious.

Mickey looked over the younger man's jumper. Ian wearing that wasn't right. Mickey looked away quickly, frowning. He shifted the phone to a more comfortable position, then said hello back. From there, there was a long stretch of silence.

Finally Ian spoke, his eyes searching Mickey through the glass. Looking, no doubt, for signs of what must be going through Mickey's head. Mickey figured Ian should be glad he didn't know and should stop while he was ahead."My court hearing," Ian said, rolling his eyes, "is tomorrow morning."

Mickey stilled. In the morning he was supposed to exchange with Marcus. Money for Mandy. He looked at Ian, blue eyes meeting pools of sad green.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mickey asked, voice hateful. He wasn't really mad at Ian. Not for getting arrested. He would be quite a hypocrite if he had been angry over such a thing. No, he was angry because he felt a sense of loss that he was uncomfortable with. But because Mickey was a bundle of nerves and as much as he hated to think it, having Ian going through the Marcus problem with him had helped. Somehow. Had made Mickey feel a slight bit of balance. Now all he felt was sick. And he was mad at Ian because if he didn't get mad, Mickey was going to pull some really gay shit and mope. Also, if he was moping, something was liable to go horribly wrong at the drop. And really, Mickey kind of figured it was a little too late now; Ian's arrest was the last straw and he kind of thought maybe he was going to go postal. He just stared at Ian's surprised face as it faded into guilt and distress. Lip was right when he said everything was fucked.

Ian sighed, and it came out as more of a rustle on Mickey's end. "Sorry," Ian said. "But if you hadn't have acted so stupid, then attacked Frank, the cop would have probably let you be. Really, this is your fault."

Mickey rolled his eyes. He could still only remember very little of last night's events. He remembered sleeping in the back of a cop car. Remembered playing pool at some point. Regardless if he could remember anything, however, Mickey failed to see Ian's reasoning. He thumbed his lip and gave a small grin at Ian. "No," he said, "you made your own bed."

Ian smirked back and then rubbed his lower face. "Whatever," he said. "The guy deserved it, anyway. Tried to arrest you under false charges."

Mickey faltered. Gaining himself fast, he raised his brows, pulling a surprised look but saying nothing. He watched as Ian looked amused despite the situation. Listened as Ian told him who the cop had been. Mickey laughed some, then. "I remember that fucking asshole," Mickey snorted. "He's had it in for me since I stole his cop car back in middle school."

Ian grinned, then looked past Mickey to the clock hanging on the back wall. When he met Mickey's eyes again, he looked crest fallen. "Got about two minutes," he informed.

Looking at the door behind Ian, Mickey watched the correctional officer fool with the lock, ready to take Ian back to his cell.

"Lip has all the money?" Ian asked, tapping the glass to grab Mickey's attention.

Mickey jerked his attention back. He nodded.

"Are you going alone?"

Mickey shook his head. "Marcus wants me to go alone," he began, "but I don't trust this won't go badly, so Lip's coming along."

Ian's eyes went wide. "That's too dangerous. You could piss Marcus off," he blurted in a single breath.

"He's always pissed," Mickey said, now watching the cop enter the room. "Besides, your brother's staying hidden until shit hits the fan."

Ian's eyes shook nervously and his mouth hung open a little as he rasped into the phone. "No," he said. "That's crazy. Just do what he wants so nothing happens. He could kill you both! And Mandy—"

Mickey's mouth twisted and he punched the sturdy glass lightly to get his point across, ignoring the fast approaching guard and startling Ian. "He's going to try and kill me regardless, you idiot," Mickey hissed, fist still against the glass, now standing. "What world are you living in, where you think he's going to be civil about any of this? I'm just hoping Lip's smart enough to get Mandy the fuck out of there while I hold Marcus off. Take a good look," he pointed to himself, shouldering the phone and now using his other hand, "because the next time you see me, it's going to be my name on a fucking headstone." He stared as Ian was pulled to his feet by the guard. The redhead clung to the phone, eyes terrified. Mickey's chest ached. His wind caught in his throat when Ian smacked his other hand against the glass, where Mickey's fist remained still. Ian's lips trembled and his eyes were suddenly red. Mickey wanted to tell Ian to quit. Wanted to scream at him. Instead he felt a jump in his stomach, like he was falling. He swallowed hard as the guard jerked Ian back and the phone slammed against the glass, swishing about.


	48. Crisis

Mickey went back to the apartment with Lip and they both crashed; Lip in the living room, phone clutched to his chest, and Mickey in Ian's room, face buried in the pillows, drooling. They both had needed sleep and that much was obvious from the loud snoring flowing through the walls. Mickey tossed and turned a few times, blanket bunched up between his arched knees, one side of his face flushed from being against the palm of his hand for a long period. Mickey probably would have slept for hours on end if his bladder hadn't spasmed until he stopped fighting it and rolled out of the bed. Groaning, Mickey scratched his thigh as he walked across the hallway and took a piss. He flushed and stood there watching the water go down, debating on going back to sleep or trying to stomach food. The later it got, the more Mickey felt a heavy feeling in his body. A numbness and an unease to end all. The time he was to meet with Marcus in the morning was just before sunrise at four thirty, so that it would still be dark. They were to meet at the wooden bridge in Northfield.

Deciding that he couldn't handle food, Mickey went back to Ian's room and laid back down. Not that he could sleep now that he was up. He tried. Mickey eventually gave up, punching the bed with both fists and sitting up stubbornly. He tried ignoring the awful feeling in his chest and stomach and went to the kitchen for a cigarette. He sat at the kitchen table, sucking down the fumes into his likely black lungs. Staring at the front door absently. The microwave clock said it was a little after one in the morning. Three hours. He had three hours of torment left before he had his showdown with Marcus. Honestly, as Mickey looked down at his hand, he hoped Ian was right. Mickey wanted to live more than anything. His survival instinct told him to run and leave this mess for Lip to handle. Because Mickey knew living was maybe out of the question in about three hours. Unless Ian was right and Marcus really would just hand over Mandy for the money. But Mickey had his knowing doubt, gnawing at his stomach until he re-swallowed bile.

Sighing, Mickey put his head down and ground out the cigarette. He heard Lip shuffling about, and, still resting against the table, watched the other man stumble about on his way into the other bedroom, door shutting behind him. Mickey hummed in the back of his throat. Lip slept walked. Mickey wondered if maybe it was hereditary, since he had also seen Ian sleep walk once, the single time that Ian had stayed the night with Mandy years ago, only to slip into Mickey's room around midnight. Mickey grinned at the thought. Ian had been sound asleep, and it had freaked Mickey out something awful. People always say to never wake a sleepwalker, but Mickey hadn't taken the advice that night. Honestly, he lost himself in the thoughts of what had gone on that night, more than five years ago, before he had robbed the Cash and Grab. Before he had been shot in the leg by some asshole with a lucky shot. Before everything had gone to the shitter. Lost himself so deep in the memory of Ian's mouth around his dick that Mickey at first didn't hear the banging on the front door. When he did finally hear it, Mickey jerked his head up and felt his heart begin racing. He zoned in on the door, then flicked his gaze to the hallway, listening through the banging for signs that Lip was awake. He heard none, just the banging. Mickey got up, making as little noise as was possible, and dug through a kitchen drawer for a knife. His gun was under a pillow on Ian's bed, and Mickey didn't want to waste time going for it. A knife would be more effective with surprise, anyway. Carefully, he walked toward the door and placed his free hand on the knob. There was still no sign of Lip, and now Mickey could hear snoring coming form the room. He wished Gallaghers weren't such deep sleepers. Mickey wasn't sure how to handle this on his own if something totally insane was about to go down. Taking in a deep breath, Mickey prepared himself within second and flung open the door, knife up and ready.

"Fuck!" Carl screeched, throwing his hands up and backing away from the door, his eyes wide and in shock.

It took Mickey a second before he realized that the person in front of him was Carl and that the man didn't pose a threat. He slid his armed hand down by his side and scowled. Carl stood straight, looking at Mickey as if the older man were insane. Mickey immediately noticed that Carl had a very small amount of hair on his head this time around. Almost enough to cover the huge tattoo of an eagle carrying a crest. Similar to the one Mickey remembered his father having had. The young man wore a dark gray, zipped hoodie and unintentionally ripped jean shorts. His hands were bruised and scabbing over. He had a black eye. Mickey's eyes quickly fell on the blood that was barely visible on Carl's hoodie. He knitted his brow, stepping aside as Carl barreled into the apartment, uninvited and already screaming for Lip. He was beyond panicked, and Mickey suspected it had little to do with his having pulled a knife. He slammed the door closed and whirled Carl around. Lip had finally woken up and was standing in the living room, in a daze, wearing only boxers and blinking at Carl, confused. Carl pushed Mickey off of him and turned his attention back to Lip.

"It's Debbie," he said, catching Lip's full awareness now. "Fi's at the hospital with her," he continued, watching Lip fumbled back into his room and dart back out, still trying to slip into his pants. Shirt backward.

"What the hell happened?" Lip asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

Carl shook his head. "She caught Hank cheating on her," he breathed, shaking his head, "and ran off. Jimmy and I found her over at Frank's, slitting her god damned wrists!"

Mickey watched Lip's face go pale. Lip mouthed nothing, in complete despair, holding the sides of his head. He looked past Mickey, and Mickey followed his gaze to the clock. One thirty.

"No," Lip breathed, unbelieving. "This shit is not happening."

"Yeah," Carl growled. "It fucking is!"

Mickey looked down at the duffel bag full of nearly one-hundred grand on top of the coffee table. Then to Lip, who had apparently followed Mickey's gaze as well.

"I can't. . .I don't. . ." Lip stuttered to Mickey, shaking his head and buttoning his pants. "Shit!"

"Just go," Mickey said. He could tell Lip was torn. Mickey knew what he would do in such a situation, though. So he wouldn't blame Lip is Mickey had to go to the exchange alone.

Carl looked between the two and frowned. "What the fuck?" he asked, pointing to the opened bag of money on the table beside him. He quickly flicked his eyes to Lip. "That have anything to do with Mandy?" he asked, flabbergasted. "I thought the police were—''

"Standing around holding their dicks," Mickey growled. "We're handling it."

Carl rubbed his face. He looked at Lip firmly. "You have to go to the hospital," he said. "She won't make it."

Lip breathed heavy, stepping toward the TV stand. He grabbed the pair of keys and chucked them at an unsuspecting Mickey. Mickey caught them, despite being caught off guard. He furrowed his brow at Lip. Lip moaned and shook his head. "You can't go alone, though," Lip said, obviously confused over his own emotions.

Mickey gripped the keys, stuffing them into his jean pockets. "Guess I don't have a much of a choice," he said, giving Lip a knowing look. Lip looked down between them, and tried to keep face. He extended his hand, eyes pained as they looked into Mickey's. Mickey stared down at Lip's offered hand. Trying not to put thought into the action, he gripped Lip's hand with his own and started to give his sister's lover a hand shake goodbye. He yelped and was startled when Lip lurched forward and gave Mickey a hug. It was quick and tight, then Lip let off and stepped back, nodding. Mickey stared at him, partly frowning. He nodded back, exhaling and licking the corner of his mouth, averting his eyes. Mickey wasn't sure why he wanted to thank Lip. Wasn't even sure why the thought crossed his mind. So he didn't say it, just stood there while Carl hurried Lip to the door. His stomach turned. It was terrifying, knowing that he was going at this alone. Knowing that he would spend the next three hours pacing as his world crumbled. Just having the knowledge that he was not going to be alone had given Mickey some sort of ease. Not now, though. He watched Carl stop in the doorway. Saw Lip turn around, confused.

"I can't go," Carl said. He scratched his cheek, looking around nervously. "I uh," he fumbled with his words and Mickey watched the young man looked down at his bruised hands. "I'm in trouble, Lip. And there are going to be a lot of cops at the hospital," he said firmly, looking Lip in the eyes now. "You don't tell them I'm here," he said.

Lip stepped back up to the door, frantic. "What did you do, Carl?" he screamed.

"Never fucking mind it," Carl growled and pushed at Lip. He pointed. "Just fucking  _go_!"

Mickey saw Lip falter only once before turning tail and running into the darkness. Carl slammed the door, and looked over at Mickey. "Your sister," Carl began, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. He stepped up to Mickey after flipping on the light. He held up his arm. Mickey looked over the healed over track marks, and then back to Carl's face. "I owe her one," he said. "So whatever the fuck you had planned with Lip, I'll go."

Mickey wasn't one to ask a lot of questions. So he accepted Carl's offer with a nod, and set about filling him in on the skinny of what he and Lip had planned out. By the time he had finished going over it a few times and taking in some of what Carl gave as input, the time was three thirty.


	49. Duet

They sat in Lip's car, overlooking the expanse of the abandoned train tracks an the bridge, down in Northfield. Mickey sat in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel, on edge. It was four o'clock and he didn't see a sign of Marcus. His heart was taking off. Behind him, laying down in the back seat, holding the duffel bag and two guns, Carl cleared his throat. Mickey looked back at him via the rear-view mirror. Carl stared at Mickey in the mirror. "My sister's probably going to die," Carl sighed.

Mickey shook his head, sniffing and keeping Carl's gaze. "Maybe not," he said. "My mom slit her wrists once and lived."

Carl studied him. "So did mine," he finally said.

"See," Mickey said, trying to maintain the chit-chat. He usually hated small talk, but felt as though if he didn't keep talking right now, he would crash. Briefly he wondered why Ian hadn't ever mentioned Monica trying to off herself.

"Yeah," Carl said. He paused for a minute, mulling over his thoughts, then said, "Yeah, I hope you're right."

Mickey let go of the wheel, looked away from the mirror and chewed his thumb nail down past the quick. It stung and he moved on to another finger. He watched out of his window as the fall wind picked up. This morning was cold. He looked over the tree they were parked under, it's branches touching the windshield. Already the leaves were changing color. Slightly. Mickey found himself wondering if he would live to see Halloween. To sit through another year of Friday the 13th marathons. He did that every year. Before leaving Chicago, he and Mandy had deemed that their holiday tradition. That and stealing bags of candy from trick or treaters while smoking pot under the El. His thoughts drifted to the one time Mandy had brought an intruder in on their little tradition. The time he had been forced to spend time around Ian in front of Mandy. Not just playing video games, but actually talking and passing a joint between them while Mandy fooled with that fucking camera she had stolen from a Sears. She had almost caught them fucking that night, actually.

Carl's voice brought Mickey around. He stopped biting his nails and smoothed down his pant legs, looking back into the mirror. "I killed someone," Carl blurted. "I killed my best friend," he finished, and Mickey heard the upset building under Carl's surface. "I killed Hank," Carl breathed.

Mickey wetted his lips and turned up the heater. His skin was covered in gooseflesh. Not because of Carl, just because he was cold and nervous.

"You ever killed anyone?" Carl asked, now sounding distant.

Mickey studying Carl in the mirror. The younger man was staring at the guns in his hands, frowning. Mickey decided that, since he was probably going to die when Marcus was finished making him sweat, he might as well actually have an honest conversation with someone. For once. "Yeah," he breathed, "I've killed a lot of people."

Carl didn't look surprised. "How does it make you feel?" he asked solemnly.

Honestly, Mickey had to think about it. He thumbed his lip and looked out the window again. Still no sign of Marcus. His guts churned. Pulling himself inward again, Mickey thought about Carl's question. How did murder make him feel? It was kind of a rush just as it made him sick with himself. Hard to explain really. "Strange," he answered.

Carl shifted about, his shoe squeaking as he twisted his foot accidentally against the door because of how tall he was. "I kind of liked it," he admitted, then said, "It scares me that I did."

Mickey caught a chill and dug back into his seat, crossing his arms. He stared ahead of him. "Sounds about right," he said. "You puke?"

"Yeah."

Sighing, Mickey played footsy with the gas peddle, given that the car was not running, only on enough to work the heater. "Anybody see you do it?" he eventually asked, after Carl grew quite. He hated that he wanted to keep talking because it meant having to express himself. But the silence was deafening and made his nerves worse.

Carl coughed. "Yeah," he said through the cough. "His mom called the cops," he went on, then laughed a little, "guess I'm fucked."

Mickey saw headlights in the distance. "Carl?" he grunted, sitting up straight. "I think that's them," Mickey's voice almost shook. He thrust and arm backward. "Hand me a gun!" he snapped, eyes wide as the headlights grew near.

"Hey, Mickey," Carl said as he handed over the gun, his voice strained from rolling over so that he was even lower in the seat, "what's it like in jail?"

Mickey frowned. "Fucking sucks," he said. "But the food's all right," he commented casually. He braved a look away from the approaching car to glance down behind him at Carl. "Just don't show weakness or you're fucked, literally," he quipped. He looked back out of his windshield. The car came to a stop in front on theirs. "Get ready," he said, stern. "Remember what we said. Take Mandy."

Carl hummed in agreement. And with that, Mickey threw open his door after tucking the gun in the front of his pants. He stepped out, leaving the door open behind him on purpose. He hoped to fucking Christ that Marcus wouldn't step close to the car and spot Carl. He watched, trying to keep himself together as Marcus stepped out of the car. Mickey breathed evenly, hoping it would help. He stood by his door, looking over Marcus. He had packed on some weight since Mickey last saw him, which had been about four years ago. He was tall as Mickey remembered, and covered in gang ink. His hair was tied back. His face was just as unattractive. He still had the one silver tooth up front; Mickey spotted it when the Hispanic smiled over at him. He was wearing a tack suit. Mickey didn't see sight of a weapon, but figured Marcus had also tucked his gun into his pants. Mickey gritted his teeth, trying to look past Marcus to the shadow he saw in the back seat. Clearly Mandy was in there. Mickey could hear her soft, wounded crying.

Marcus held tight to the door, looking over at Mickey, taking him in, sizing him up as well. He shook his head and laughed. "Where's the money, you fuck?" he spat while smiling.

"Mandy first," Mickey said, firm. He kept his face hard, his hand ready.

Marcus laughed and put his head to the side, against his shoulder. He wiggled his body around in some kind of weird dance before looking back up. "You don't trust me," he said. "Mickey, Mickey, Mickey," he sang, "Oh Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. Come on!" He stopped dancing and put his hands on his hips, stepping away from the door. His face twisted fast and he bared his teeth, eye gleaming in the coming sunlight. "Hand over the  _fffffffucking_  cash!" he screamed, high pitched. His scream echoed about.

"Not until I see Mandy," Mickey said evenly.

Marcus went back to the car door and peered down inside. "All right, fuck" he said, "see your fucking Mandy, then."

Watching with a tight jaw, Mickey resisted the urge to shoot Marcus then and there. It would have made things easier. Except Mickey wasn't convinced Marcus was alone, and didn't want tor risk Mandy having her throat slit by some lackey hidden in the back seat. Marcus reached inside and Mandy screamed while he pulled her hair and dragged her from the vehicle. She slid onto the ground hard, the gag falling from her mouth.

"Mickey!" she screamed, blindfolded and covered in dirt and blood. Her clothes were missing. Marcus held tight to her hair, laughing.

Mickey's blood ran cold and his eyes widened. His heart pounded so loud that it was all he could hear. That and his own unsteady breathing. Time seemed to slow. He watched Marcus jerk Mandy by the hair a few more times before letting her go. Mandy wriggled about on the ground, trying to crawl away using only her arms. Her fingers dug into the dirt as she pulled. Marcus held his stomach with laughter. Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fuck everything he had planned. Knowing that Marcus was too busy being amused by himself and his sadistic behavior, Mickey made no qualms about pulling the gun from his hem slowly and pointing it forward. Marcus only looked when he heard the gun cock. Mandy stilled on the ground, stopping her screams.

Looking at the gun, Marcus grinned, toothy. Mickey too a few steps forward, so that Mandy could grab hold of his shoe. His finger rested on the trigger. He pulled it even as Marcus ran forward, already getting his own gun from his pocket. The shot hurt his ears. Mandy squealed. Carl was getting from the car, Mickey could hear the younger man scrambling toward them. The shot he fired only clipped Marcus in the cheek. Ordinary persons might had fallen down screaming after having a sudden hole blown through their cheek, but not Marcus. He took his own shot, cursing loudly and aiming right for Mickey's chest.

Mickey dodged, but only barely. The clip got him in the side. He stumbled over Mandy, yelped and grabbing at the wound, gun firing again at Marcus. This time Marcus was aiming at Carl, who through the bag of money in front of the shot. Mickey watched the bullet whiz through the fabric, piercing the money. Some of the money flew around as the bag's zipper burst open upon contact, only a little. It was quite literally raining money on top of Mandy as she struggled with the ropes around her wrists, crying and screaming over the top of Marcus's next shot. This time Marcus didn't miss. His bullet soared through Carl's neck, and Mickey found himself screaming and reaching out to grab Carl as he fell. His fingers grabbed at Carl's shirt and Mickey went down on one knee. Carl coughed blood onto Mickey's sleeve. Eyes wide with rage, Mickey dropped Carl and stood up, not worrying over his bleeding side now. He aimed just as Marcus did. But Mickey didn't fire. And neither did Marcus on a account of Mickey dropping his gun, surprising the other man as he dashed forward, reaching in the back of his pants. The kitchen knife that Mickey had grabbed earlier had cut a small gash in his back since he had hidden it there. He hardly noticed the sting as he pulled it loose and went at Marcus.

He threw the Hispanic man against the hood of the car with a loud thump. Marcus struggled against Mickey, but Mickey did fast work, stabbing Marcus just above the groin repeatedly, too fast. Marcus stared at Mickey with wide eyes and an open mouth as Mickey stepped back and let the man slid down the front of his blue Cadillac. Blood smeared on the paint. Marcus held his stomach and twitched, looking up at Mickey. Mandy was still screaming in the background, still unable to know what was going on.

"It's fine, Mandy," Mickey barked, grabbing his side and throwing the knife down. "It's over!"

Sirens exploded in the distance, approaching fast. Mickey closed his eyes and collapsed to his knees, breathing evenly as he knelt there, in wait.


	50. Love is Complicated

Mandy sat on the edge of the ambulance, clad now in a couple blankets, bandaged up, holding a ventilation mask to her face and trying to control her racking chest as she held back more crying. Mickey was in the truck across from her, knocked out and being pulled up. Carl's body had been covered with a sheet as the police stood around on walk talkies and crime scene photographers went about their business. The female paramedic beside of Mandy smoothed Mandy's her hair. "Sweet heart," the older woman said, "we need to take you to the hospital so you can be examined."

Mandy knew she had the right to refuse, but she wasn't going to. Usually Mandy would have refused going to the doctor, but after what she's been through, after who had touched her, Mandy wanted them to be thorough. She shook as the paramedic helped her onto the bed. Mandy hated that her legs just flapped about limply. Like a maimed animal. Cripple. She tried not to look down, feeling humiliated and violated, and too many more emotions for her to think straight. She let the mask off of her face and grabbed the other woman's arm, her eyes going wide as she dug her fingers in. "My brother," Mandy begged, "where's my brother!" She felt crazy. Couldn't keep track of her thoughts. She remembered now seeing Mickey just seconds ago, being lifted into another ambulance.

"You're brother's fine. The bullet pierced through his side," the paramedic said.

Mandy let go and stared up at the roof, blinking wildly. She heard the doors shut as two more emergency technicians jumped in. Felt outside of herself as they sped away with jerky movements.

She had been at the hospital now for only about thirty minutes. The doctors had looked her over and ran blood work. Cleaned her up nicely. Had given her weird, thin underwear, socks, and a gown. Mandy sat in her wheelchair beside of Mickey's bed, blowing her red nose into a tissue and ignoring the tears staining her cheeks. She was more at herself now. Her hair was wet from having been given a shower by one of the CNAs. She held Mickey's limp hand and studied his sleeping face. They had patched him up and given him morphine. Mickey always slept the longest when given heavy pain medication. She grinned down at the words on his knuckles, rubbing them tenderly. It was weird that life had thrown them such a deck to play. Weird that it had taken her this long to look at Mickey's face and know that she actually loved her brother. That somehow he must love her too. Really. Like family was supposed to. Like they hadn't let on before.

"You stupid asshole," she whispered, still smiling down at him, "thank you." She gave his fingers a tight squeeze, sighing loudly and then letting go. She wheeled over to a trashcan in the corner and deposited the shredded, wet tissue. Before her shower, Mandy had instructed a nurse to call Lip's cellphone. That had been only about ten minutes ago. Mandy figured it would take Lip another thirty or so to actually get to where she was. Which was twenty minutes outside of Chicago, apparently in Northfield, Illinois. But what with city traffic being what it was, Lip would have a hassle of a drive ahead of him.

Pulling on the blinds, Mandy opened up the window a little to see the sunlight. She had been kept in a basement of an abandoned church and had almost forgotten what beautiful looked like. Sighing, she fooled with the skirt of her gown, staring out at the cars whipping by on the suburban streets. She sat there for a while. Until she felt two arms wrap around her tightly from behind. Mandy had seen him coming. She smiled at Lip's reflection in the glass. Lip kissed her neck, looking relieved, and buried his nose in the crook of her neck, against her wet hair, leaning down so that he looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"Are you okay?" he finally asked, pulling back and sitting on the nightstand while Mandy turned around. He looked in more pain than Mandy figured she'd ever seen Lip Gallagher express. More than when Karen had broken him.

"I'm okay," she said quietly, twiddling her thumbs and swallowing the ball in her throat. She had been tough once, she told herself. And she needed to find what was left of her backbone because she needed it now more than ever.

Lip looked over at Mickey.

Mandy wondered if Lip knew about his brother yet. Likely so. "Carl—'' she began.

Lip shook his head fast. "I know," he said fast, closing his eyes, voice breaking. He held up a hand for her to leave it alone for now.

She stared at Lip who was staring down at Mickey. Finally she got to ask him what she had been wondering: why he hadn't been there. Honestly, Mandy was glad that Lip hadn't been. It could have been Lip instead of Carl, and while Mandy knew it was probably horrible to be glad for the fact that it had been Carl and not Lip, wrong to even think positively about Carl's death, she couldn't stop herself from being.

Lip turned his attention to Mandy. He looked like he had been crying, but Mandy wasn't going to press him about it. "Debbie tried to kill herself," he chocked out, clenching his fists in his lap.

Mandy's eyes widened. "She okay?" Mandy asked.

Lip nodded. "She's been cutting herself for a year now," he sighed. "I should have seen this coming."

Mandy wheeled over and touched his arm, she met his eyes and told him he couldn't have anticipated it.

"Debbie was off of her medication," Lip said sourly. "Yes I could have. I should have told Fiona about Debbie's cutting."

Mandy shook her head and patted his arm. They remained like that for a while. Finally Lip reached out and pulled Mandy against him. His hand bunched up, tangled in her drying hair. He pressed his mouth against her surprised forehead and forced her to stay against him. "Don't you ever leave me," he whispered against her flesh, words hard to decipher but Mandy made them out. "I love you, Mandy Milkovich," he said, and Mandy felt tears on her forehead. "And I need you to stay put because everything else in my life is leaving," he mumbled. He kissed her hard and held her for a long while. Mandy leaned into Lip's chest, fingers clutching his shirt and turning white at the tips because of her grip. Lip was warm and safe and Mandy thought she could stay as they were forever. His hands rubbed softly against her back, soothing. She felt broken still, despite Lip's presence. But Mandy figured she would heal slowly with Lip's help. Figured also that she would have to help him heal some, too.

"I'm so sorry, Mandy," Lip said into Mandy's hair, voice muffled.

She pulled back, frowning. Mandy slapped Lip's shoulder lightly. "Don't you dare," she said, heated. "This wasn't your fault," going on, she gripped his face."It was no one's fault except the man who did it," she whispered lastly, staring hard at Lip, her forehead against his. Lip might have looked downtrodden at her as she spoke, but Mandy knew that Lip would leave well enough alone; Mandy would talk about what she had been through when she was damn good and ready, and it was pretty obvious that she wasn't. So the couple left it at that. Even though guilt was still thickly written across Lip's face.

Later, Lip offered to take Mandy home for rest and a change of clothes. But Mandy refused to leave until Mickey woke up. So Lip left her in Mickey's room, watching game shows on the tiny box television in the far corner. Went back to the apartment in Chicago to bring Mandy a change of clothes so she could get out of the hospital gown and start feeling normal again. As normal as was possible, anyway. He would be gone for over an hour, she knew, so Mandy had a nurse bring her a pillow and a couple of warm sheets. Mandy bundled up and made herself as comfortable as she could in a wheelchair. She tried to stay awake, watching Family Feud reruns. Because she knew when she slept she would dream. And Mandy hated dreaming because she had only nightmares now. Memories of all she had gone through, past an present, often time mingled together. Unfortunately, she was exhausted and ended up falling into her dreams despite her efforts.

When Mandy awoke, it was because of a loud buzzing coming from a neighboring room. She jumped, silent but startled, her heart pounding and a hand over her chest. Wide eyed, she surveyed the room to convinced herself she was all right. With her heart still racing, Mandy stopped looking around, settling her eyes on the scene before her. She blinked, studying the redhead sitting on the edge of Mickey's bed. "Ian?" Mandy questioned, looking confused. Lip had informed Mandy earlier of Ian's fate. "I thought you were in jail?" she finished expressing as Ian turned his neck and smiled over at her.

He stood up and moved to her side, giving her a lingering hug, bending uncomfortably just as Lip had. Mandy felt a ball form in her throat when Ian let go of the hug just long enough to wrap a strong arm around her neck and press a desperate kiss to her furrowed brow. She rushed too grip his shaggy hair, tears falling from her eyes again. Mandy had cried for so long, but had clammed up after the hospital ran their tests. Now Mandy's upset returned full force. She blamed her having dreamed, but knew it was more than likely Ian's embrace that broke her. Mandy would never tell Lip that, although she was in madly in love with Lip, she had loved his brother for far longer. She would never tell Ian that either, although sometimes she wondered if the ginger knew. Certainly she would never discuss her love complication with Mickey. This she pondered as she looked over Ian's shoulder at her brother, who was stirring. She wouldn't talk about it with Mickey for sure. Never. Even though Mandy knew that Mickey definitely was aware of her secret and had called Mandy out on it years ago. Mandy ducked her head and cried into Ian's shoulder, feeling the weight of the world crash against her. She cried and almost didn't notice when Ian lifted her and flipped them so that he was seated in her chair, cradling Mandy.

"I thought they shot you," Mandy sobbed into Ian's shoulder. "I thought you were fucking dead!"

Ian smiled against her forehead, neck tilted. "No," he said, "just completely deaf for a few hours." Mandy pulled back completely from Ian and cupped his chin. Ian's smile faded and his big does eyes saddened. Tightening his grip on her waist, Ian told Mandy how sick he had been over everything. How sorry he was that he had failed to save her. She punched him, laughing for the first time, even though her stomach was still sinking at the events of her life. And even though she told him to shut up, Ian went on praising Mandy's survival. She could tell that, even though Lip had apparently informed Ian of Mandy's safety and Mickey's hospital room number when Ian met Lip, surprisingly, coming into the apartment, Ian had no idea about Carl. It was probably best that he didn't get the news right away, anyhow.

Mandy sighed and held her head against Ian's shoulder, closing her eyes and trying to relax. She opened her mouth to ask Ian why he was suddenly a free man, but was interrupted.

Mickey groaned and turned a little on his side, eyes squinted from haze and pain, one hand pressed flat to the bed, near his chest. He wrinkled his nose and Mandy followed her brother's confused gaze to the redhead beneath her. "Gallagher?" Mickey asked, voice strained and groggy.


	51. Mouse Trap

Part Five: Cheese Wheel

After Mickey woke up, a nurse came in immediately to give him more pain medication. Mickey told the woman to suck his dick, and since he had the right to refuse, the bitch withheld more morphine and left the room. He didn't want to be fucked up on morphine the entire time he was stuck in here. More over, he didn't want to have formed an addiction to it when he got out. Mickey might not have ever expressed his fear to anyone other than Mandy one weird Christmas morning, but Mickey was fucking terrified of becoming his mother. He had inherited a lot from her, and her addictive personality was only the half of it. In fact, the whole four years he had spent in Indianapolis sharing a bed with a heroin addict and pushing the drug himself, Mickey hadn't tried smack once. Had thought about it. Hadn't actually gone through with it, after tying up his arm and heating his spoon. So no, Mickey didn't want any more highly addictive painkillers. He would grin and fucking bare it.

He winced and cursed as he pushed himself up on the bed, holding his side. His inside felt like they were coming out. Like any minute his guts would spill forth through the bandaging. Finally sitting up, Mickey panted for a few minutes, his head spinning a little as a left over side effect of the morphine. He swallowed and rubbed his temples, still gripping his side.

"Mickey," Mandy said after Ian sat her back down, "maybe you should just take the morphine."

He let go of his head and frowned over at his sister. "I'm not taking fuck all of anything they try feeding me," he said bluntly, the took a sharp breath because talking made his side jiggle and that really hurt. "God!" he hissed out slowly, turning his head and closing his eyes, now griping his wound with both hands.

Ian, who stood by Mandy with his arms crossed, brow knitted and eyes wide with concern, shook his head. "Mickey, you're crazy," he said. "Why the hell not?" he pressured, and Mandy tugged his elbow meaningfully.

Mickey watched the interaction, scowling. Ian looked down at Mandy who was shaking her head slowly, mouth pursed, eyes warning. Ian just looked confused, then glanced back up at Mickey, cocking a brow as he watched Mickey press against his side.

"Just leave it," Mandy whispered, tugging Ian's elbow again. "He's fine," she said, this time stern.

Mickey rolled his eyes, breathing heavy, and leaned further into the pillows, trying to relax. He hated that he probably looked like a fucking pussy in front of Ian. But it couldn't be helped. Getting shot sucked majorly. It felt way worse in his side than it had in his leg. Growling, he slammed his head back a few times before going back to relaxing. Sort of. Lolling his head to the side, still a little loopy, Mickey looked over his sister. "You all right, Mandy?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheek to try not and wince from the pain again. This made him sound strained. But it was better than whining like a bitch.

"I've been better," Mandy said, giving him a weak smile and playing with a tissue she quickly plucked from the nightstand.

Mickey snorted. "So have I," he said bitterly. He looked away from her and straight above him. He knew better than to press Mandy yet. Mickey figured she had already been forced to give a report to the police, paramedics, maybe Gallagher. She wouldn't want to talk about what had happened again for a while. Mandy would probably just clam up and hold it all in until she exploded. Like she always did when she was upset. Mandy was definitely a Milkovich. Always played pretend until the act became too much to handle. She would eventually breakdown and stop trying to say she was fine. Because even Mickey knew there was no way in hell his sister was okay. Not after what Marcus probably put her through. Actually, Mickey really hoped Mandy would never tell him the details of what had happened to her. He would never ask. Because Mickey didn't feel like getting arrested for digging up a corpse and setting it on fire when he found where Marcus was buried.

Trying to breathe in a way that wouldn't upset his side, Mickey looked over again, this time at Ian. He stared, aware that Mandy was watching him. Figuring at this point hiding much was a moot point. His brow knitted some and he chewed his scabbed over lip, eyes moving up Ian and landing on the redhead's face. Ian seemed like he couldn't figure out how to behave. Mickey almost smirked at the fact. "How did you worm your way out of it?" Mickey asked, knowing Ian should be in jail right now.

"I hired a good lawyer," Ian replied, sitting down gently on the nightstand, looking at Mickey intently.

"I don't think I'm suited for jail," he joked, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Snorting, Mickey suppressed a yawn. "Nah, they'd have eaten you alive," he said.

There was a long pause before Ian opened his mouth to respond, but was instead cut off by Lip's entrance. All eyes turned to Lip. He came into the room, carrying a plastic shopping bag of what Mickey figured was Mandy's wadded up clothes. Following behind him were two men in suites. Mickey's stomach sank when one of the two men, the fatter one with a balding head, flashed a badge. Lip stepped aside and let them in front of him, shooting Mickey a worried glance before going toward Mandy.

"Mickey Milkovich?" the fat man began. He pointed to himself saying, "I'm detective Shane Townsend and this is my partner, detective Marshal Adamsen."

Mickey eyed them both, frowning. Adamsen was a short, frail looking older man with thick glasses and long gray hair. He looked kind of like a rat. Townsend was tall, fat, and already on Mickey's shit list.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to place you under arrest," Shane Townsend said, rather polite.

"You understand why?" the partner pressed.

Mickey's mouth fell open. "Right now?" he asked, laughing, but then winced and grabbed his side again. "Fuck," he smiled bitterly, "my day keeps getting better!"

Mandy blanched and Lip gripped down on her shoulder. Ian stood up, shaking his head. "He's been admitted to the god damned hospital," Ian spat, scowling.

"I understand," Adamsen nodded, "but he will have to be transported to the infirmary for further treatment."

It was a week later, walking mostly fine now, that Mickey stepped into an interrogation room, uncuffed because he posed no threat, and waited for his lawyer to show up. The detectives and the rest of their posse, probably the prosecutor, were waiting just beyond the one way mirror. Mickey knew this because he had been in similar situations before. None quite so dire, but still. The cop who had escorted him in stood in the corner like a statue, hands cupped in front of his hips and staring straight ahead. Mickey sighed. His side ached only a little now. Putting his elbows on the table, Mickey pressed the tips of his fingers together and hoped his lawyer wasn't a complete idiot. The ones appointed by the state usually were.

Mickey hopped his foot beneath the table, antsy. The room was a little too warm, and Mickey figured that was on purpose. He tried to ignore it. Finally the door opened. Mickey dropped his hands and jerked his head up, face blank as the woman who he assumed was his lawyer stepped in carrying a briefcase. She was young looking, maybe only ten years older than Mickey. Too tan. Her hair was pinned to head head in a tight black bun and she wore frameless glasses. Her face was pointy. She took a seat across from Mickey and extended her boyish hand. Mickey furrowed his brow. He didn't fucking shake hands. Only once had he given in to that behavior, and that instance had gone terribly wrong. She got the point and withdrew her hand, sitting back evenly and scooting forward. She introduced herself as Tabatha Godfrey and stated that she had been hired by Mickey's sister. Mickey would not be bothered with wasting time on a court appointed attorney. He cocked a brow as she told him this. Mickey was leaning back in his chair now, holding his chin, elbow propped up on a lazily crossed leg. Her voice was confident and she used too many large words for Mickey to keep up half of the time. He wished she would just speak in layman's terms. She must have caught on to that too, maybe because of the look Mickey hadn't know he was giving her.

"Mickey," she said, leaning forward and undoing the suitcase, "you aren't getting out of this innocently, I'll just be honest."

Mickey grunted. He had kind of figured that, given that he had taken the law into his own hands and had ended up killing a man. Tabatha cleared her throat and slid a picture toward Mickey. He caught it before it slid off the table and looked up at her confused before glancing back to the photograph. Feeling a twist in his gut at the face he stared down at, Mickey looked away quickly. He stared back at Tabatha. He guessed he was fucked worse than he thought.

"Julio Valdez," Tabatha stated, motioning to the picture Mickey held.

"What about him?" Mickey said, keeping a neutral face. He had no idea where this was going. He had thought this bitch was supposed to help him, not dig his grave deeper by delving into his business in Indianapolis.

"You know him," she said, didn't ask, and slid another photo across to Mickey.

He looked at it and then looked to the side, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His legs hopped harder.

"That is a photograph of you and Mister Valdez outside of the Gold Brick Tavern in Indianapolis, Indiana," Tabatha continued. She cleared her throat again, and touched her throat, apparently suffering a cold. She dug through the briefcase and produced more pictures, throwing them Mickey's way in no necessary order. Looking at Mickey pointedly, the lawyer tapped two fingers on the table and said, "The Indianapolis police have been trying to send Julio upstate for years. Give him up and I can get you a get out of jail almost free card, with promised released under witness protection."

Mickey shook his head. "Go to hell," he spat, lip raised in disgust and crossed his arms.

Tabatha rolled her eyes at him. "Mickey, as your lawyer, I am telling you that not only are you looking at a minimum twenty year sentence for your actions here in Chicago—''

Mickey threw a hand out in annoyance, exclaiming the reasoning behind his actions in a booming voice.

Tabatha remained calm, staring at Mickey in wait. When he finished, she pursed her lips. "Finished?" she said. When Mickey just looked at her in a mix of anger and uncertainty, she nodded. "May I continue now, Mister Milkovich?" She looked behind her at the mirror, then back to Mickey before going on. "Twenty for that, plus now the Chicago courts are aware of your life in Indianapolis, and involvement with the Latino inner city gangs," she waved a hand over the photos he held. "We're talking life, Mickey. Life imprisonment in the Indianapolis federal prison. Do you understand that?" she asked firmly.

"I'm not a fucking rat," Mickey hissed, slamming his fists on the table.

Tabatha sighed. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you," she said, "until you are willing to help yourself."

Mickey's neck vein bulged. How dare this fucking whore? Baring his teeth he jumped up from the table and stared murderously. "Help myself get fucking nicked?" he growled. "You think you can protect me? This man," he waved the photograph in Tabatha's face, "already thinks I'm dead. I'm fucking safer in prison for the rest of my life than letting him know I'm alive!"

"Sit back down," the police officer ordered from behind Mickey.

Mickey whirled around and flipped him off. "Fuck you," he spat.

The guard began moving forward, but Tabatha raised a hand and he stepped back into place, watching Mickey carefully. Mickey turned back to Tabatha as she called his name.

"Think about it," she said, standing and collecting her things. "The prosecution is giving us until tomorrow morning to make the deal. You should take it," her words sounded final as she snapped the briefcase closed and looked at Mickey hard.

Time passed slowly for Mickey. Finally it was October first, seven o'clock in the morning. Mickey sat in his cell, contemplating what he had just agreed to. He almost wanted to take his words back. But it was too late now, he had already given a statement on record. It was done. Mickey had never fancied himself a rat. In fact, being a god damned snitch had been not even listed on Mickey's to do list. Yet here he was, waiting for an officer to pick him up and have him meet with fucking Chicago PD at a motel outside of the airport. It was like he told Ian when the redhead visited him the previous evening, after Mickey's meet with the lawyer; Julio had too many people on the inside of every jail and prison within a three state radius of Indianapolis. Mickey wasn't fixing to get shanked in prison. And starting over somewhere else, living in a constant state of fear sounded only slightly better. But Mickey had taken the later option.

" _I'm fucked either way," Mickey said into the phone, morose._

_Ian looked heartbroken. "You know that means you won't be able to contact anyone you know, ever," Ian said, swallowing hard as he stared at Mickey with sad eyes through thick glass. Again._

_Mickey nodded. He couldn't even bare to look at Ian._

Mickey laid back on his bed, staring at the wall, holding his head and chewing his tongue. He had thrown up numerous times and now had a horrible taste in his mouth. His throat ached. His chest ached. Mickey almost wished Chrissy had actually succeed in slitting his wrists. Almost.


	52. Breakdown

Ian honestly hated coming to remembrance ceremonies in Washington, DC. For the last two years he had been attending them begrudgingly. He didn't like putting on his old uniform. Didn't like speaking on the podium. Didn't like the metals they gave him. Didn't like to think about his past, period. Coming to these fucking things made forgetting entirely too difficult.

Sitting in his car, in a huge line of traffic going into a tunnel, Ian tried his hardest to not be late for the ridiculous ceremony. He was fuming. He hadn't even made it to check in to his hotel and put on the uniform. He was still in cargo shorts and flip-flops. Ian turned on the radio, then flipped it back off because he hadn't liked listening to the song currently playing since his junior year in high school. The song reminded him too much of sex with Mickey. Another thing Ian couldn't bare was thinking about Mickey Milkovich. He sighed an put his face closer to the air-conditioner.

Mickey had been missing for two years now, since going on the stand against Julio. Since witness protection. It was hard for Ian to think on the fact that he would never see Mickey again. Besides Mandy, Ian had taken Mickey's disappearance the worst. Mickey's being gone kept Ian up at night. Not always, but usually. Ian wondered what Mickey's new life was like. If he ever thought about Ian or anyone else back in Chicago. Probably. Ian figured it was just as difficult for Mickey, being gone. Maybe worse because Mickey hated dealing with authority; hated being on the radar. With Mickey's life the way it was now, Ian imagined that Mickey was probably miserable. After all, Mickey was likely having to watch every move he made. Ian sort of knew what went into being under the witness protection program. Knew the US Marshals watched every breath a persona took. Mickey was having to live straight edge, no doubt. That was hard for Ian to picture. But he hoped it was true because the alternative was a scary thought. The alternative being that Mickey had broken too many of the program's strict rule and had been thrown out. If that were the case, Mickey was either in hiding of his own accord or dead. Ian hated thinking about Mickey. It hurt too much. So he tried to block out his thoughts by taking deep breaths.

This traffic was driving him mad.

All of this time and Ian's thoughts and hurt over Mickey had not improved much. Kind of like before. But this time the pain was worse. Because Ian and Mickey hadn't parted in anger. And worse was that this time Ian didn't wonder if he loved Mickey. He knew he did. That was the most awful part about Mickey's disappearance. Unlike the last time Ian lost Mickey, this time he wasn't able to let go, probably ever, because he knew.

Finally the line he was in moved enough to satisfy Ian. He made it to the edge of the tunnel and the flow halted again.

"Damn it!" Ian yelled, slamming his hands on the steering wheel. Trying to control himself, Ian put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Someone could just honk at him when they moved again. Not long after settling down, Ian sat up to the sound of his car beeping at him. He frowned and looked down at the dash. Gasping and eyes wide, Ian watched his coolant gauge shoot up. Damn if his car wasn't overheating! Quickly, he turned it off to halt the process. Unfortunately it was around that time that the traffic moved. All around him people were honking.

Frantic, Ian restarted his car, cursing the impenitence and lack of sympathy from those around him. As soon as the car started the gauge was on the rise again. He groaned and punched the gas, hoping that his engine didn't explode before he could pull off to a safe area. His luck picked up when Ian managed to pull off, right after leaving the tunnel, the the side of the road. Staring out at the hood of his smoking car, Ian went ballistic, beating the dash angrily until some of his rage settled.

Looking around him, Ian realized that he was in a terrible spot to receive help from a tow truck. Growling, Ian reached into the middle console and grabbed his cellphone. He dialed the operator and dug around his glove box for a pen and something to write on. He found only a pen and rushed to jot on his hand the first four tow company number that the automated operator on the other line rattled off. He hung up and began trying for help. Ian went through all of the numbers and it wasn't until the last one that he reached someone. Someone would be there to pick him up in an hour because of all of the events currently going on, the woman he spoke with informed him. Ian huffed. An hour where he was forced to sit in his car waiting, miles away from a public restroom. And he had just downed a rather large bottle of water not a hour before hand.

He reached down to at least turn the air-conditioning on, but was sorely disappointed to discover that his battery had apparently died. And all because he had forgotten about turning his lights on in the tunnel.

Ian laughed bitterly, sweating bullets.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, bladder about to burst, Ian was thrilled to see a tow truck pulling around. As he had expected, the tow truck driver had a difficult time figuring out a way to get to Ian without holding traffic up worse. Eventually they figured it out. With one problem solved, there was now the matter of finding an auto shop. Apparently there were few and far between in this area, and the towing fee was quite hefty, so Ian didn't want to venture far on his budget. So the company Ian ended up being towed to, the closest one, was more than a little rough around the edges. Which wasn't a problem for Ian, who was used to rough neighborhoods and sketchy buildings.

After being dropped off, Ian practically ran from the tow truck. He paid the driver and turned around to speak with the head mechanic of the rundown shop. The man was average height and build and looked a little like Eddie Murphy. He shook Ian's hand and asked the regular questions about what Ian's car was doing. Ian figured his bladder was about to rupture as he stood there by his dead car, to the left of a rusted metal fence that housed piles of car parts and junk vehicles. Once he had finished briefing the mechanic on the car details, Ian asked if there was a restroom somewhere.

"Nah," the mechanic, whose name was Derick, shook his head, "but the cafe next door has one." He pointed to the building attached to the shop. Ian glanced at the place once, thanked Derick, and made a beeline into the cafe.

The inside of the cafe left much to be desired. Three mismatched tables littered the place, the counter was home to a slouched over mailman munching on a barbeque plate and soda. Ian spotted the bathroom in the far left corner, behind two running floor fans. He rushed inside. Once in, he saw that there was another door in the pitiful excuse for a bathroom. One to the kitchen, where he could hear the dishwasher running and muffled voices. He hurried to get back to the shop and see if they had began looking at his car. He figured not, though, given that he had all but just gotten there. But he hoped. On his way out, he stood before the two fans, relishing in the cool air before going back out into the scorching late May heat wave.

As he slid between the buildings and a line of cars, Ian stepped into a deep puddle of muck and cursed. With one of his flip-flops soaked, Ian trudged back into the garage for the auto shop, in search of Derick. He found the man standing with two other mechanics near the hood of a Volvo. Ian tapped Derick on the shoulder. Derick turned around, face friendly.

"Have you had a chance to look at my car?" Ian asked. He didn't want to seem like a jackass in a rush, so he followed with, "I figure you haven't gotten around to it yet. It's just that I'm supposed to be at the remembrance service, and I also need to let my hotel know how late it will be before I arrive."

Derick wetted his lips and looked out past Ian to the parking lot across the street. He pointed in the direction and Ian followed the man's finger to the car in the distance. "You're up next," he told Ian. "If your hotel isn't far," Derrick continued, "you could take the Metro and go on to check in. Maybe we'll have some news for you by then."

Ian sighed, regretfully smiling. "My hotel is all the way in Laurel, Maryland," he informed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was drenched in sweat and his clothes stuck to him horribly. "The Metro stops five miles shy of it,he finished saying.

The mechanic furrowed his brow and told Ian that was a shame.

"Yeah," Ian said, pulling on his shirt to fan himself. "I'll just have to cancel," he grumbled, looking now at his watch. He had only twenty minutes before his check in time. No way could he make it. At least if he canceled now, he could get his money back and put it toward a closer range hotel.

Ian turned away from the mechanic, peering out of the garage to the distance. The ceremony was long since started. He guess he would just have to miss this one. And there wasn't really a way to let anyone know he wasn't going to be speaking. Oh well. He sighed and plopped down on the bench near the office door, thanking the mechanic before pulling out a cellphone and calling to cancel his hotel reservation. In retrospect, Ian should probably have called around and booked another room first. He wished he had because damned if everything wasn't booked solid.

Ian pulled at his hair, slamming his phone down beside of him on the bench. Growling lowly, he crossed his arms and stretched out. He surveyed the garage and saw Derrick coming his way and cleaning his hands on a greasy towel. The old man raised his brows at Ian and asked if Ian had had any luck finding a room.

Ian huffed and drooped himself over his knees. The sun had gone down some, so he wasn't quite as hot now. But still sticky with dirt and sweat. His right foot caked with mud. He looked up at Derrick and frowned. "None," Ian said, then sighed out, "And I've already canceled the other room."

Derrick whistled. "The festival and some rally are going on right now," he commented. "At's probably why. Plus that ceremony you mentioned," he finished and tucked his hands in his pockets.

Ian looked down at his feet and pursed his lips. Bitter at his luck, he griped, "Guess I can sleep in my damn car."

Laughing lightly, Derrick pointed to his office. "You're having some luck, ain't you?" he chuckled. "You can use the computer if you'd like," he began. "Might find something that's not listed in the books."

Ian brightened a bit with hope. Ten minutes later, sitting in the torn computer chair at Derrick's desk, Ian felt a rush of relief. He had found and booked a room at a Holiday Inn right smack in the middle on the city. Fortunate for him, someone had not shown up and the room had only just opened up when Ian called.

It was almost nine o'clock at this point, and Ian figured, since they hadn't even gotten around to looking at his car yet, he may as well come back in the morning. So he hoofed it three blocks to the underground Metro and only ended up getting lost twice trying to find his hotel.


	53. Be There

Ian arrived back at the auto shop around ten o'clock, after stopping by the rally that was apparently going on near the Smithsonian Museums. Today he opted for as little attire as was legal, being as it was another melting day. And lathered himself in probably too much sunscreen. Yawning loudly as he crossed the street, Ian barely missed being hit by a motorcycle that appeared from nowhere. His heart was racing as he jumped out of the way and watched the fat biker speed away. Ian shook his head and walked into the garage. Derrick was at the entrance, puffing on a cigar. Ian waved the heavy smoke away from his face as he greeted the mechanic.

Excusing his manners, Derrick lifted his foot and put out the cigar against the heel of his shoe. He coughed a few times into his fist and then nodded at Ian. "You're car's all fixed up nice and new for you," he said, smiling.

Relief washed over Ian. He grinned, grateful. "What was wrong with it?" Ian asked, knitting his brow in curiosity.

Derrick shook his head. He informed Ian that he hadn't been the one to work on it. "You'll have to ask my guy who did her up," he said. With that, he pivoted a little and cupped around his mouth, yelling, "Aaron! Man's here to pick up the Prius!"

It was so loud in the garage that Derrick's yell might have gone unheard. Ian thought for a second that maybe it had, until he heard a clatter from the very back of the garage, around a corner. He peered, squinting a little as he watched the man who had worked on his car kick at the items he was struggling with. He couldn't hear much of what the guy was saying, but Ian could tell the stranger was cussing the rims. Ian looked him over as the man gave up, back still turned to Ian, and dug through his pockets, seconds later lighting a cigarette. Ian watched the smoke puff out around the man. And then the stranger turned. And Ian's heart stopped. His eyes zeroed in on the man's face. While Ian was soaking up every detail of the person walking toward them, the other mechanic was clearly not looking his way, was in fact hardly paying attention to where he was walking.

"You're gonna fall, bust your ass!" Derrick laughed.

Ian watched a smile creep across the face of Mickey Milkovich, who was starring at the ground while he walked. He still hadn't noticed Ian. Was now too focused on watching his footing, seeing as he almost tripped simultaneously with Derrick's words.

"Aye, fuck you, man," Mickey snapped, relaxed as he hopped over someone's legs while they changed oil in a truck. "Clean the hell up around here," he said, stepping only a foot away, "and we might have less accidents," Mickey emphasized, slowly raising his head, cigarette pointed in Derrick's face. Ian didn't miss how Mickey froze in place, face faltering.

Derrick was unaware. He slapped Mickey's hand out of his face. Rolled his eyes. "You're the one makes most of it," Derrick grumbled. "You got hands, mother fucker. You can clean," he laughed. Derrick looked at Ian and thumbed toward Mickey, smirking. "I only keep this asshole on because he's a damn good mechanic. He's awful company. Rude as hell," he teased, then added, "But guarantee you your car runs better than it did fresh out the store."

Hardly able to breathe as he stood there staring at Mickey, Ian fumbled for words. Mickey, however, appeared to suddenly gain composure. Mickey rolled his eyes, and dug through his pockets, pulling out Ian's car keys. He licked the corner of his mouth as he held them out to Ian. Ian thought he might have just lost totally mental capabilities in that moment. He stared hard at Mickey's mouth, where spit glistened a little on his lip. Mickey quickly thumbed his mouth, ridding himself of the saliva, as was habit. A nervous habit. Ian took the keys, swallowing hard.

Thankfully, a new customer pulled in before Derrick could look anymore confused by the interaction. His attention was pulled away, and Ian stood there in front of Mickey.

Mickey jerked his head toward the outside and turned, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Come on," he said casually, "and I'll show you what was wrong."

Ian blinked. He shook himself quickly and followed after Mickey. Unable to take his eyes off of Mickey, but also unable to decide where to stare, Ian took in Mickey's greasy jeans and gray v-neck t-shirt. The array of new ink on Mickey's forearms that Ian couldn't quite make out all of because of the angle he was looking from while walking. Mickey's messy black hair. The fact that Mickey had gained the muscle back that he had lost during his stressful stay in Chicago two years ago. The lack of beard. Even the dirt under Mickey's nails. Ian stared at that the longest for some reason, when the two of them approached his car. Mickey rested his hand on the hood, the other partially in his pocket as he stared at Ian.

Trying to collect his thoughts, Ian rubbed his temples and closed is eyes briefly. When he opened them back up, Mickey hadn't moved. He glanced over his face before holding eye contact. "How are you," Ian breathed, aware that he was probably making some sappy face.

Mickey shrugged, wetting his lips, then chewing at a piece of skin before turning his head to spit the flake. He went right back to looking at Ian. His face was oddly relaxed. Mickey raised his brows, told Ian he was doing all right, "For a fucking rat in a cage," he finished. "But okay, I guess" he said, shrugging again. Pausing for a minute, Mickey gave Ian a once over. "You?" he asked, eyes on Ian's neck.

"I'm. . .I'm okay," Ian half said, half laughed, but barely whispered. "You've been in Washington this whole time?" he couldn't help but ask. Needed to know. Could hardly contain his emotions. Wasn't sure what to settle for.

The older man shook his head, black hair blowing around a bit until a piece fell in his face. Ian liked Mickey with his hair a little longer. Truthfully had always wondered what it would have looked like. "They had me in Wyoming for about four months," Mickey said, licking his teeth, looking a little nervous and glancing around for a second. "But somebody recognized me. Sort of," he swished his hand, then frowned and pressed it back to the hood. "Asked if I was a relation to Terry Milkovich, so the marshal had me moved down south," he continued. "Lived in Texas until about six weeks ago," Mickey finished, eyes very obviously taking in Ian's face.

Ian hummed. "How was Texas?" he asked, scratching his bicep awkwardly.

"Sucked," Mickey spat, then hocked a luggy on the ground.

Ian stared at Mickey and tried but failed to fight the large grin that wiped across his face. "I miss you," Ian couldn't stop himself from saying. "Mandy misses you, too," he added, hoping to sound less desperate.

Ian watched Mickey's adam's apple bob as the ex-con looked down at Ian's feet and crossed his arms. Mickey searched for words, his mouth opening once then slowly closing. He sighed loud enough that Ian could hear it clearly. When he looked back up, Mickey's eyes darted about Ian's face again. Ian could tell Mickey felt uncomfortable with whatever he was thinking. "Yeah well," Mickey began voice low and uncertain, catching Ian slightly off guard, "I miss her, too," he admitted.

Honestly Ian was more than a little shocked. Then again, he had witnessed changes in Mickey during those months shared in Chicago. And anyone would mellow out after all that Mickey had gone through. Also Ian couldn't help but feel Mickey was inadvertently getting across that he also missed the redhead. But Ian wasn't sure if he was just being hopeful.

Suddenly the thought hit Ian that someone would find out Ian had found Mickey. As if reading his mind, Mickey snorted. "Right," Mickey said, wiping sweat from his head and then crossing his arms again, "so if one of my fucking bird watchers finds out you've made me, I'll have to move again."

Ian frowned. "Is that your way of telling me to leave?" he asked, chest aching, a knot in his throat.

Mickey licked his lip, tonguing his cheek slowly, his eyes calculating as he met Ian's eyes firmly. "No," he said. He uncrossed his inked up arms and sucked on his bottom lip, still holding Ian's gaze.

Ian's dick twitched and his heart jumped, a flow on relief heating him from the inside out. He hoped he wasn't blushing, but figured he was.

Mickey smirked a little, cocking his brow and looking off to the side. "What hotel are you staying at?" he asked Ian, looking at him point blank once more.

Taken aback, but happily so, Ian informed Mickey of his temporary whereabouts.

Mickey nodded. "Be there when I get off work," he said, then tossed Ian his keys.

Ian almost didn't catch them because he was too busy watching Mickey turn tail and jog across the street. He opened his mouth, furrowing his brow, then shook his head and stood up straight, and yelled after Mickey, "I don't know when that is!"

Mickey stopped dead center of the street and turned back around, a car whipped by him, blaring the horn. "Kiss my ass!" Mickey screamed at the car, flipping it off. He turned his attention back to Ian in the distance. "Seven!" he called harshly, then walked off into the garage, out of sight.


	54. Say Yes

After paying Derrick for the work done on the car, Ian went for breakfast. He had about nine hours to kill, and spent most of them roaming the streets of downtown DC. Nine hours that couldn't possibly have gone by any slower. Around six thirty, he headed back to his hotel room. Unfortunately for Ian, the city was exceptionally busy, and he had grossly underestimated how much time it was going to take him to actually get on and off the Metro. Too long. At ten after seven, Ian made a mad dash through the lobby and into the elevator, closing the door in someone's face as the woman tried to enter. His was the third floor, and he wondered if taking the stair would have been quicker, as he got off the elevator and walked the halls toward his room. He rounded the corner. His was the last room on the very back hall. Standing at the beginning of said hall, Ian stared down the expanse to what was in front of his door. His nerves let loose and Ian felt overwhelmed with relief that Mickey had actually waited. Was sitting on the floor in front of Ian's door, back against the frame and legs arched; a case of beer between his knees. Mickey must have heard Ian coming, because he was looking in Ian's direction, face neutral as he studied the redhead.

"About time," Mickey called. His voice nearly echoed in the hall. He patted the case of beer. "You gonna stand there all night," he said, "or help me drink this?"

A grin crept across Ian's face and he strode forward. Mickey stood up, picking the case of beer bottles up by the handle. And moving aside while Ian unlocked the door. The two men stepped inside, Mickey shutting the door behind them. Ian figured a click, as Mickey locked the door behind him, had never sounded so final. The redhead turned around, towering over Mickey, who was looking up at him. Mickey's eyes were unsteady. He swallowed hard, and for some reason, Ian couldn't take his eyes off of Mickey's neck. Mickey smelled like the inside of an engine. Like car exhaust. The brunette had a few black smudges on his face, neck, arms, and hands. His clothes were filthy. Ian trailed his eyes over Mickey and this time came to rest on Mickey's slightly parted mouth. Probably Mickey's heart was racing as fast as Ian's. Ian could kind of tell by the quick rise and fall of Mickey's chest. Mickey just stood there, staring back. All was quite until Mickey dropped the beer. In one swift motioned he did this; the beer clattered about. Hands free now, Mickey grabbed hold of Ian's belt loops and pulled the younger man against him into a violent kiss. Ian wasted no time responding. He threw his arms out and walked forward until Mickey's back hit the door, only breaking the kiss once. Ian braced himself with his palms while Mickey's hands seemed determined to unbutton Ian's bottoms. Finally Ian let go with one hand and gripped Mickey's neck, thumb against Mickey's jugular. Mickey growled into Ian's mouth. His teeth raked across Ian's bottom lip, pulling it into Mickey's mouth for a quick suck. When Mickey let go, laughing breathy, Ian smiled. They stilled, remaining in position. Mickey's hand now rested snuggley down the front of Ian's tented short, gripping Ian through his boxers. Ian shifted a little, crotch aching because of the motion.

"I want out," Mickey said, voice low and face serious. "I want out of this damned program," he repeated.

Ian smirked, leaned in and pressed a kiss against the rapid pulse on Mickey's neck. Mickey lifted his head to allow this, groaning a little with a need that Ian could feel against his thigh. "So leave it," Ian mumbled against Mickey's dirty skin. "Come back to Chicago with me," he continued, hand sliding down Mickey's shoulder, the other still against the door.

Mickey shook his head, causing Ian too look up and knit his brow. "I can't," Mickey barely said, frowning. "Not while Julio's still breathing," he said regretfully. But Ian sensed that Mickey was going somewhere with this conversation. So he pulled away, making Mickey frown deeper. "I'm only going to ask you this once," Mickey said, straightening his clothes now that Ian had taken a few steps back, awaiting the point, pants still undone. "You can say no," he said, narrowing his eyes, "and it's no skin off my bones." But it was obvious he didn't mean the last part.

Ian pressed Mickey to hurry with the point.

Scratching his chin, Mickey sighed. He looked down at the sprawled about beers near his feet, and nudged the mostly empty, overturned box. He didn't look back at Ian as he said, "My brother's in the same jail as Julio."

Ian blinked, confused but catching on already. "Are you talking about Iggy?" Ian asked.

Mickey nodded, finally meeting Ian's eyes after he bent down and picked up a beer, popping the cap. Taking a long glug, Mickey held Ian in his gaze through the corner of his eyes. When he was satisfied with his half of the bottle, he handed it over to Ian and burped from the side of his mouth. "Of course," he began, "I can't contact anyone or the marshal will throw me to the wolves." He snorted and then said, "He finds out who you are and he's going to, anyway."

Now Ian fully understood Mickey's train of thought. But honestly he wasn't sure he was comfortable with it. With what he assumed Mickey was getting ready to ask him to be a part of. He finished the beer and sat it down on the nightstand.

Mickey rubbed the back of his neck and walked past Ian to sit on the edge of the bed. He stared at the redhead. "You can say no," he said again. "You know what I'm getting at, right?" he asked, cocking a brow and thumbing his lip, seeing Ian falter and nod his head.

"Mickey," Ian said, frowning and looking around, unsure of himself, nervous now, "I don't know if I—''

Mickey scowled and stood from the bed fast, clenching his fists by his sides. "So you're saying no?" he flared.

Ian squeezed his eyes tightly closed and shook his head. "I don't know what I'm saying yet!" Ian barked back, exasperated. "Fuck's sake, Mick, you're asking me to put a hit out on someone! I've only just found you after two years of this!" he went on, and threw his arms out, motioning around him, unsure of what he was trying to get across. Frustrated, he growled and began pacing, aware that Mickey was watching Ian's every move. Eventually, after a silence, Ian stopped walking and sat down on the bed beside of Mickey. He sighed heavily and fell onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, knees bent and feet touching the floor. "How?" Ian blurted. Then said, quickly, "I'm not saying yes yet."

Turning his wait so that he could look down at Ian, Mickey said, "He hates me, so I have to give him incentive. Iggy's easy to buy off."

Ian closed his eyes and asked just what type of incentive Mickey planned on promising his brother.

"He's in there for life, regardless if he cuts Julio," Mickey said, eyes wide and serious, holding Ian's gaze like magnates. "Money every month in his commissary account should be plenty," Mickey proposed. Ian could tell the other man had thought this through, probably for a while now. Had just been waiting for the right time.

Reaching up, Ian rubbed his face, then held the sides of his head. His hair was sort again, and so his fingers hand nothing to tangle in. "How much?" Ian asked, face sullen. He asked himself for the thousandth time in a matter of second if he was willing to help Mickey have someone killed.

"A thousand," Mickey put it bluntly, still looking down.

Ian's eyes bulged and he sat up abruptly on his elbows. "A thousand dollars?" he blanched. "You're out of you fucking mind! Where will you even get that kind of money just to piss away?"

Mickey rolled his eyes and fell back on the bed beside of Ian, scratching his briefly exposed stomach casually. Ian's stomach flipped and he nearly forgot the extent of their conversation. Almost. He pulled his legs up on the bed and crossed them over one other, wrapping his arms around his knees and looking at Mickey's calm face. He waited for Mickey to explain himself. Ian knew he probably wouldn't like the answer. But being beside of mickey again felt so right. He didn't want to just walk away. If he had a shot at bringing Mickey home, he knew he was probably going to do it. Besides, it wasn't like Ian was an entirely moral person. He had grown up in the inner city of Chicago, on the side where even dogs often behaved better than their owners.

Absently rubbing the comforter beneath him, Mickey glanced at Ian. He began explaining himself, breaking the situation down to a simple form. Easily put, Mickey was mostly safe in witness protection. Which was great except that Mickey apparently hated his life now. Not that he had ever liked it really, he stated, looking at Ian pointedly, saying, "Only certain parts of it." And Ian's heart picked up and his stomach fluttered when Mickey held his stare saying that. Because that was probably the closest thing to an I love you that Ian would ever get out of the ex-con.

"Julio has too many connections," Mickey said, going back to watching the ceiling fan. "When I took the stand," he went on, "he made it clear that he wants me dead, make no mistake." He told Ian that he had been moved from Texas recently because of a threatening phone call he had gotten from someone Julio had paid to find him. "Julio holds a fucking grudge worse than I ever have," he admitted. "He's not calling off his dogs until I'm face down in the sewers. But," he paused, smirking, "if he were out of the picture, I doubt his people are going to give much of a shit where I'm at. With that group it's all about who is in control. Most of them will probably be glad when he dies."

Ian pursed his lips. "That still doesn't tell me how the hell we come up with a thousand dollars every month to give to your brother," Ian stated.

Mickey shrugged against the blanket. "Once I'm free from the radar, I can figure it out," he said, sniffing confidently.

Ian huffed. "Not good enough. What will Iggy do if you  _can't_ ," Ian exclaimed.

"Kill me," Mickey said, as if he were talking about the weather. "But that won't happen."

And as Mickey said that, Ian looked at Mickey's face and knew he was hiding something. He wetted his lips and looked across the room to the bottle of beer on the floor. The one empty bottle, forgotten on the nightstand. Rubbing his tired eyes, Ian turned his attention back to Mickey, who was staring back peacefully.

"I would do it myself," Mickey said, voice gravely, "but I make one wrong move they'll jerk the rug from under me. And I guess I could go into hiding on my own," he continued, propping up on his hands, "but that would mean staying just as hidden. Only I would lack the three hundred extra dollars a month that the government gives me to stay in the program." He sighed and stared downward. "Seems pointless to go incognito if there's no money involved. I'm fucking sick to death with hiding like some god damned coward," Mickey commented, then looked up, eyes lidded, frowning. "You going to help me or what?" he asked, most likely unaware of how beautifully vulnerable he looked.

"What would I have to do?" Ian asked, wanting to touch Mickey's face. He didn't because he knew that Mickey wouldn't have it.

Mickey brightened up some, but squinted a little, unsure of Ian's true intentions. "Give Iggy the first pay off," he said. "Mail this," he grunted, sitting up and dug through his pockets, pulling out a folded up piece of notebook paper.

Ian stared down at the letter that looked very worn. Clearly his assumption that Mickey had been thinking about having Iggy kill Julio long before, had been correct. "And the money?" Ian asked. "The first pay off? Where's that?"

Mickey merely blinked. "My savings account. It's been in there since Chicago," he said.

Ian felt hot and sick all over as he took the letter and sealed his fate.


	55. Blood in My Mouth

When Ian woke up, naked and sweaty beneath the sheets with the sun blinding him through the hotel's crappy blinds, Mickey wasn't beside of him. Was in fact gone. Ian's stomach sank as he sat up and threw the blankets from him to try and get some air. The air-conditioning unit in the window had stopped working sometime around one in the morning, while Ian was sucking Mickey off. During what was their third round of sex. He stood up and glanced around. The remnants of what had gone on the night before cluttered the room and he felt sorry for the housekeeper that would be assigned this room. Sorry enough that he actually slipped on his boxers, which had been across the television, and began picking up the empty bottles of beer and filling up the two trashcans for his room. Next he went about locating the used condoms. And the busted bottle of lube that Mickey had tossed away, only to break it open on the wall accidentally. And the various cigarette butts. Those especially, since this was technically a non-smoking room. He ran out of space to throw trash in, and improvised by stuffing most of the small things into the empty cardboard box that had housed the Miller Highlife. Ian then turned his attention to the alarm clock that Mickey's ass had knocked off the nightstand. The item had fallen to the floor beside of the bed, only to be stepped on and basically shattered. He collected it and all of the small pieces, and placed it beside of the trash can and cardboard box in the bathroom. He looked around the bathroom, examining the floor. While it may have looked clean, Ian knew he had came on it at one point. Nothing to be done for that, really. He wadded up the towels Mickey had apparently used to shower with, given that Ian hadn't taken a shower since his first night in DC, and those dirty towels were long since taken away. He tossed the wet towels into the shower floor. The bathroom looked relatively normal, but as he stepped back into the room, he sighed heavily and shook his head. Truly, Ian didn't want to pay for damages, but there would be no avoiding doing so.

The television that had held up his boxers had came dislodged from it's mouth on the dresser. A dresser that had been made out of shitty wood anyway, given that one of the legs had snapped so easily under Ian's weight. So not only was the dresser slanted now, the television was just laying their on it's front, probably broken. Besides that, there was the matter of the lamp that Ian guess was supposed to be classy or something. It had been hanging on the wall, attempting to look antique. Of course now, it was dangling from the wall by wires, the bulb still flickering some. He looked from the wall across the room and the sorry lamp, to the mussed up bed.

Because the hotel was not the most expensive one, the blankets were worn and old from too many washings. Really it wasn't even noticeable. Ian had only noticed because his fitted sheet had had a very small hole in it the first night, before he had even laid down. Now the sheet was ripped from center to the bottom. Ian had been extremely drunk at the time, but he remembered vividly Mickey's toe getting stuck in the tiny tare. Suitable to his usual behavior, Mickey had just cursed and ripped his toe loose, unintentionally annihilating the sheet in the process. And Ian, who hadn't plaid the role of bottom ever in his entire sexual life, shockingly, until last night, had gripped the headboard so hard that it had slanted as well, only in the opposite direction of the dresser. The room was very Salvador Dali. Especially since the wall art of a crane and sailboat was lopsided beside of the door.

Ian groaned and held his forehead. His hangover sucked worse now that he knew he was going to be out at least a hundred bucks in damages. If not more.

Shaking himself, Ian gained some composure and went about collecting his clothes from the foot of the bed. He got down on his knees and reached beneath the bed for his single suitcase. Pulling it out, he popped it open and stuffed the dirty clothes inside after pulling out his last extra outfit that wasn't a marines uniform. Ian dressed quickly and resnapped the suitcase after digging for his wallet. He looked around for any items he needs to take with him before check out. His phone, now in his pocket, said it was almost that time. Satisfied, Ian nabbed up the letter and torn piece of magazine paper that Mickey had written his account information on. The debit card that Mickey had left with the notes. All of that tucked safely into his wallet, Ian rode the elevator downstairs and checked out, paying off his parking fee.

Nearly fourteen hours later, around two in the morning, Ian pulled into his driveway back in Chicago. He practically slouched his way to his door, leaving the suitcase behind for now, and walked into the apartment that Lip and Mandy had moved out of and given to him. His brother and Mandy had bought a house in Kenwood soon after Mickey's disappearance, figuring that Ian would want time to himself. Actually, and he would never say it, but Ian hated living alone. He was so used to the chaos and cluster fuck of house-guests he had grown up around that living alone was almost depressing. But he wouldn't never tell Lip that because his oldest brother had meant to be doing Ian a favor at the time. Fortunately, the apartment was small enough that it didn't make Ian feel too lonely.

He kicked off his shoes toward the living room, not really minding where they landed. And stepped over the cat as it rolled around in front of him, begging for attention. Ian walked toward the kitchen, stomach growling. He hadn't stopped for food except once in Ohio for a quick bite. The apartment was clean and spelled like someone had cooked in it recently, he noted as he walked toward the refrigerator and pulled out a container of yogurt. Fiona or Debbie had likely been by to check in on the cat and apparently helped herself to Ian's chicken breasts, by the smell of it. Digging around the silverware drawer, Ian could only find a fork, and glanced into the sink where his dishes sat in cold, soapy water. He didn't feel like fishing a spoon out, so Ian ate the yogurt with the fork.

Walking over to his sofa and plopping down, still eating, Ian put his bare feet up on the coffee table and watched his cat claw at its scratching post beside of the television. Getting that scratching post had been the smartest decision Ian had made regarding his aging cat. Who was apparently not too old to fuck everything in the apartment up. Fiona always said he should put the cat out of Ian's misery, but Ian was too attached to the monstrous thing to have it killed.

Ian swallowed his yogurt hard at the fleeting thought. He leaned forward and sat the half eaten container on the coffee table. The fork outweigh the food, so the yogurt fell on its side, spilling out some. Nose like a beacon for food, the cat rushed over and jumped up to lap at the delicious meal. Ian rolled his eyes, too tired to care. And too preoccupied. He shifted about, digging his wallet out of his back pocket and pulling it free. The things Mickey had given him were still in their place, and Ian took the letter out to read it, although Mickey had told him not to. Yet Ian unfolded the letter carefully, so as not to rip that paper that looked as though it may have been washed at some point. When He had finished reading it, Ian stared into space, blanked faced and pondering. He didn't want to let Mickey down. Didn't want to lose the older man again. Not when he had been literally been handed a way to have Mickey back, maybe even for good. Which was all Ian figured he had ever wanted. To have Mickey always. No matter what it meant doing. He sat the letter down and pulled out the debit card and account information. The account wasn't in Mickey's name. It was under his assumed name that had been given to him by the US marshals. Aaron Carter. And apparently it held at least a thousand dollars. Probably a lot more, given Mickey's confidence on paying Iggy his soon to be dues.

Sighing, Ian laid the items on his coffee table and stretched out on his sofa. He fell asleep thinking about being an accomplice. Mickey had informed Ian, before the redhead had dozed off the past night, that Mickey would rather have mailed the letter himself rather than involve Ian into a mucky situation, but that the marshal monitored the mail Mickey received and sent out, like a hawk. Mickey needed this to go unnoticed, and Ian was the perfect person to pull it off. No one would question anything, Mickey had said. Julio would be killed, the guards would clean him up and have a funeral. The police would be happy that Julio wouldn't walk the streets again, and Iggy would be no worse off than he already was. Would be, in fact, better off because he would have money coming in on a regular basis. And as Ian thought about these things, he dreamed of showering in blood. Of tasting the iron.

The following morning, he mailed the letter to the prison Iggy Milkovich was being kept in.


	56. Who Are You

The marshals monitored Mickey's mail to both his work and home address. They monitored his phone records. He wasn't allowed to even send out letters with no return address to someone from his previous life, even though Mickey thought that seemed harmless. The marshal visited him weekly for a fucking report on any suspicious activity. They even monitored Mickey's house at night sometimes. Mickey knew this because he had seen the same black car sitting across his street in Wyoming, Texas, and now in here, in DC. At first Mickey had been afraid that the car was one of Julio's lackeys, but now he knew it was just a US marshal. He knew this because he had taken a registered gun to the window of said car once back in Wyoming. That hadn't gone over well with the startled marshal, but at least Mickey's mind had been put to ease. The guy was lucky Mickey didn't shoot first and ask questions later.

Since Ian's visit nearly a month ago, Mickey had been confronted on suspicious activity. Mickey had lied about Ian and thankfully the marshal took it no further, yet. He would soon. Mickey could tell.

Strange as the amount of monitoring was, Mickey was also able to get away with a lot more than he should have been. Nothing illegal, as that would have been noticed within a matter of hours. But small things, like setting up a post office box without the marshal noticing. They probably would have noticed, had he set the box up in his name, in DC. He hadn't. He had set the post office box up in Baltimore, under the name Jake Matthews. Another small thing that the marshal let slide to a certain extent was Mickey's weekly visit to the therapist in Baltimore. After all, his visits to that bitch had been the government's idea in the first place, being as she often worked with people in the witness protection. Supposedly to help with depression, which Mickey, she claimed, was in denial about. She also reported to the marshal about anything Mickey let on. She didn't say this, but Mickey wasn't fucking stupid.

So once a week, Mickey went to sit in the shrink's office and put up a brick wall while she sat there waiting for him to break. He didn't. Mickey saw no need to express anything he felt because she would just share his thoughts with the marshal. Mickey's thoughts were mainly how to get his old life back. Which probably wouldn't go over well, and would probably have him thrown out before he was ready. But he went to her because he basically had to. And also because Mickey had been checking the post office box regularly since Ian's departure. So far he hadn't gotten a response from Iggy. This worried Mickey.

Today was Tuesday, appointment day. Mickey parked his car near the building he was about to be tormented in for an hour, and stepped out. A soda can followed him from his car, clattering on the cement. Mickey kicked at it to rid it of his way, and shut the door to his decent car that really needed to be cleaned out. He couldn't be bothered. Besides, Mickey found items better in chaos and mess.

The day was actually mild weather. Something Mickey was glad for. Breezy even.

When he got inside and his false name was called, his good mood quashed. Mickey stepped into the doctor's office and had a seat in the recliner near the door. She followed Mickey and sat in the chair beside his, crossing her legs and hands, smiling in that sympathetic way that made Mickey want to fucking hit women all of the sudden. He cleared his throat and made himself comfortable.

"So how are you, Aaron?" the doctor asked, tilting her head as if Mickey were a fucking lab rat.

He kept his face neutral and stared ahead at the desk and the file atop it that was obviously his. Mickey scratched his forehead, saying he was fine and leaving it at that.

The doctor, whose name was Carol Slentz, smoothed the legs of her pants suit. She stared at Mickey expectantly as usual. Slowly growing aggravated, no doubt, from his lack of cooperation. Carol pursed her painted pink lips and rested her arms on the arm rests, hands clasped in front of her stomach, dangling. "You know," she began, voice even, "you've been seeing me now for almost two months. I should think you would have opened up to me by now."

Mickey shrugged and finally looked over at the woman. In truth, she was a very lovely middle aged woman, if not for her two-face attitude that Mickey could see just beyond the surface. He knew people like her. Disliked them greatly. He watched her sigh and shake her head, a piece of blonde hair falling from her uptight bun. She relaxed her arms and pushed her glasses up on her nose.

"How's work?" she pressed. "You have an hour, you might as well talk about something," she said, smiling.

"It's okay," Mickey said bluntly.

"Are you only going to give me two worded answers again, Aaron?" she asked, calm.

"Yeah," he said, "probably." It had been an intentional answer that time, and he smirked to himself.

Carols chuckled and shook her head. "Please be serious," she said.

Mickey refused to speak, just stared back at the therapist in defiance. Finally Carol uncrossed her legs and stood. She walked over to the desk and Mickey's eyes followed her, curious. He watched as she picked up his file and came to sit back down. She flipped through the file, in search. Once Mickey had tried to take a peek at his records, but Carols had insisted that he shouldn't look at her notes on him. It wasn't protocol. To Mickey, none of this: seeing a doctor, being someone else, hiding; was  _his_  protocol. To Mickey, he certainly had the right to see what the bitch had been writing about him.

"Okay," she said, determined, "if you aren't going to talk, I get to pick the subject."

"Doesn't mean I have to answer," Mickey responded, crossing his arms.

"No," she said, nodding and meeting his eyes, "it certainly doesn't."

He waited while Carol tapped the file and trained her eyes on something in particular. She then looked back at him and said, "How about we discuss your mother. You mentioned once that the last time you saw her, she was moving here, to Baltimore."

Mickey tensed. He hadn't remembered saying that, but then he thought about it and supposed that he had once, when Carol had continued to press him on how he felt about what should happen if he ran into someone from his past. If he was emotionally ready to handle that. "What about her?" Mickey grumbled.

"Does it concern you that you may run into your mother?" she pressed.

Mickey licked his teeth and stared at Carol. He knew what she was trying to do with this conversation. Patient and doctor confidentiality meant nothing when a person was in witness protection. He was aware that his eyes were wide with annoyance and on edge. "Well I don't tend to cruise the streets looking to pick up hookers," Mickey bit, "so I don't really think I have anything to worry about."

The doctor didn't react more than to nod. "Does the marshal know about you mother, Aaron? Does he know she lives here?" she asked.

"I don't think anyone knows where that bitch is," Mickey said. "She never was one for honestly."

Carol pulled the pen from her breast pocket and began writing. She didn't looked up as she asked, "Your mother is a prostitute?"

Mickey frowned, anger boiling. "Was once," he said, tight. "I don't really know what the fuck she does now,  _doctor_. She hasn't really been all that consistent in my life. Maybe she's dead."

"And how does that make you feel? That your mother has always been a fleeting figure in your life?" she asked, looking up for a second, pen ready.

Mickey clenched his fists against his rib-cage, grinding his teeth, toes digging into his shoes. "It doesn't," he said matter-of-fact.

She began writing again.

Now Mickey felt a need to defend himself again whatever the fuck Carol was writing. He assumed it was terrible and utter bullshit. So feeling the need, Mickey leaned forward and said, "Before you go writing that I'm holding in some deep rooted god damn self loathing and depression over not having a mother, you should probably know that I don't feel anything because my mother," he emphasized, "is a stranger to me. It would be similar to how I'd feel if say," he pointed to her, "you were to walk out the door," as he said this, he used two fingers to act out the motion, "and disappear." He sat back and shook his leg. "I'd just be assigned a new shrink and you wouldn't be a fucking  _fleeting_ thought."

The doctor sat down her pen and sat up straight, tiling her head at Mickey again. "But we don't get assigned new mother's, Aaron," Carol said gently. "And regardless of your hostility toward the woman, no one can deny loving their mother."

Mickey knitted his brow. "You don't know mine," he said. "I have no love for that cunt."

"To hate her so much," the doctor said, "you'd have to."

Mickey felt ill. "I'm done," he declared, standing to his feet and walking to the door. By the time his hand reached the knob, the doctor was informing Mickey that he still had forty minutes. Mickey left. But he only made it so far as the lobby before he growled to himself and turned back around, marching into the office. Damn if he was running from a verbal fight. Mickey was sick of running.

Carol was still sitting in the seat when Mickey walked back in and slammed the door behind him. He stood there and looked down at her, his face full of rage. Carol looked back with patience. Mickey fucking hated her.

"Want to tell me what you're thinking?" Carol asked politely, looking back at him with a blank face.

Mickey snorted, still scowling. "Believe me," he growled. "You don't want to know." When she just continued to look up at him patiently, Mickey laughed bitterly. "You want to know what I'm thinking? Seriously?" he growled. "I'm thinking I'd like to take a brick and smash you're fucking face into fucking hamburger," he said, voice lowered to a normal level, calm.

"Do you think making hamburger out of me would make you feel better?" she asked, unmoving, face still unreadable.

"Mother of Christ! Is this a woman thing?" Mickey flared. "You ask me how I'm feeling, so I tell you how I'm feeling, and now you're going to torture me with it?"

The doctor hummed and pointed to the other chair. "Please sit down," she began, "if we're to continue."

Mickey shook his head, licking the corner of his mouth. "Fuck you!" he said. "I'll stand."

"Okay."

Mickey faltered. He hated how confused therapy made him feel. How off balance. Begrudgingly, Mickey sat down. But only because it was more comfortable and his leg was hurting with phantom pains today where he had been shot once.

Carol smiled then and took her pen in hand to quickly jot something down. Mickey rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Finally, she sat the file and pen down on her lap and went back to looking at Mickey. Mickey wished Carol had just kept her mouth closed when she spoke next.

"Do you hate women?" Carol asked.

What the fuck kind of question was that even? Mickey thumbed his lip. "No," he said casually. "I hate everyone, regardless of their gender. I'm fair that way."

Surprisingly, Carol actually laughed softly, genuine. "Really, Aaron," she said, after gaining composure, "how do feel about women?" Before he could speak, she held a hand up. "I ask because our parents, or parenting figures, are who we, we the general population, subconsciously look to for qualities that we favor in others. Parents are how people learn to form relationships, friendships, bonds," she informed. Mickey just frowned. So she pressed. "You have a hard time making those bonds," she said. "And now, what with your current situation, I feel that anyone would be having an identity crisis, which likely makes doing so even more difficult."

"What the hell are you trying to say?" Mickey snapped. "Stop skirting around."

She grinned. "Your comments are always so chauvinistic," she said.

"It's figure of speech," Mickey said, rolling his eyes again.

Carol shrugged. "Perhaps I'm looking too deep," she said.

""Yeah,  _perhaps_ ," Mickey grunted.

After a long stretch of sitting there staring one another down, Carol finally said, "What I was trying to get at earlier, Aaron, is that I think making a friend might help you. Starting a new life is difficult. Friendships can make situations easier."

Mickey snorted. He glanced over at the clock. He had fifteen minutes left of this bullshit dance. When he looked back to Carol, she was writing again. Mickey really wanted, in that moment more so than any other he'd had up until now, to walk over and jerk that damn file from her hands. Break the pen in her fucking mouth and make the bitch swallow that ink and the words she'd written. But instead he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "A friend?" he asked. "You want me to make a fucking friend?" When she just looked up and nodded, Mickey actually laughed. "Are you going to be my new best friend, doc?" he asked mockingly, smile fully of sarcasm.

Carol put down the pen immediately and looked up, raising her brows at Mickey's obvious sarcasm. "Don't you like any of the people you work with?" she asked. "Work is always a nice place to start."

"No," Mickey said, smile slowly fading as he shook his head. "And I don't want a fucking friend, anyway," he went on, stopping his shake to tilt his head at her in the same condescending way she often did to him. "Besides, aren't friendships supposed to be based on honesty or some shit?" he stated more than asked. "What should I say to my new friend about my past? Am I supposed to feed that person the fake one given to me by your guys in fucking coats? Maybe I can just feign amnesia!" Mickey laughed, airy and hateful. "No, _Carol_ ," Mickey said, "friendships would only complicate my fucked up life worse. I don't need that shit. I have enough on my plate."

Carol sighed and wrote again. She paused, seeming thoughtful, then looked up at Mickey and said, "You need someone you can trust, to talk to. Someone who is not a doctor or a marshal. It would help you. Even though you refuse to admit when you need help."

No. Mickey had admitted that he needed help a month ago. To Ian. He just hoped the other man hadn't backed out of the plan. It was starting to seem as though he may have. Which hurt more than Mickey was will to admit openly.

He must have been putting on a sad face because Carol sat the file and pen on top of the table beside of her. "Off the record," she began, catching Mickey's attention as he looked up from staring a hole in the carpet, "Who is the man the marshal has informed me of? The one you met at the hotel?"

Mickey knitted his brow. He had already been confronted by the marshal the day after Ian left. Mickey had figured the redhead would come up again at some point. He hadn't been expecting it to be on the doctor's behalf. And Mickey couldn't help but wonder if Carol was honestly going to keep anything off the record. Probably not. And so he told her then how full of shit she was.

"I promise I'm not," she said and held up her hands in surrender. "Aaron, you are a patient before anything else. I'm here to help you more so than the marshal."

Yeah right. He said nothing, just stared.

"The marshal thinks that the man you met with is someone from your past. Is that true?" Carol asked, and when Mickey said nothing, just looked away and rubbed his lower lip, Carol took in a deep breath and nodded, serious. "He found you?" she asked. "Is he dangerous?"

Mickey huffed out a short laugh. Only emotionally, he thought but did not utter.

"Who is he?" she asked, curious. "Family?"

"No," Mickey said, quietly, still staring to the side, face a hard wall of seriousness and upset.

"Friend? Enemy? Work with me here, Aaron," she pressed.

Mickey took in a deep breath. "My name's Mickey," he said, looking at her with a locked jaw. "Not Aaron. Mickey."

Carol seemed taken aback. "You aren't supposed to share that information with me," she said, looking him over.

Mickey smirked as he watched her reaction. "The way you press me in here," he said, "what the fuck else am I supposed to let on about? You don't ever ask fuck all else but about my past, bitch. So there's a piece of it."

She looked over at the file on the table, then back at Mickey as she folded her hand in her lap and crossed her ankles. "And the man?" she asked, obviously curious. Mickey guessed even therapists got curious sometimes. Especially in Carol's line of work.

Staring at her, still propping himself against his knees, Mickey ran his tongue across the back of his bottom teeth, mouth politely open as he was deep in thought. He blinked and looked away for a second. Certainly he was not going to tell this woman what had been discussed in the hotel. Because even if she was keeping some of this conversation off the record, Mickey knew she was inform the marshal of Mickey's taking a hit out on Julio.

"The man?" Carol asked again. "Who is he to you?" she pressed.

Mickey honestly didn't know how to answer that one. He had asked himself the same thing the night he had returned to Chicago after escaping the hospital and running from Chrissy. After Ian had expressed how he felt about Mickey. Mickey hadn't been able to. Not really.

_"You fucking wreck me."_

The again, maybe he had, after all. Mickey wasn't sure.

He watched a looked of knowledge flutter across Carols face, and wondered what his own expression had told her. Mickey hated how he never was able to hide his feelings from showing on his face. Except for once, and even then, Mickey wondered if Ian had sensed the lies.

Carol nodded to herself. "He's your lover," she put it simply.

Mickey's eyes bulged then, and he looked at her with venom, sitting up straight fast, asking her who the fuck Carol thought she was making anything her business.

"Why does it matter?" Carol shot back at him, cocking a brow.

Mickey bared his teeth and pointed at her. "You know," he began hatefully, " _my_  mother told me never to answer a question with a question."

Carol grinned. "So your mother did teach you something," she said.

Mickey shook his head and rubbed his hand through his hair, sitting back and taking a few deep breaths. A few moments passed before he calmed down enough to be rational. Usually Mickey wouldn't have bothered getting rational, but age will do that to a person, he figured. Age and too much stress. He wetted his lip and sniffed hard at Carol, "Look," he started to say, "if I asked you about your life, who you talk to, who you trust—''

"I'd take the fifth," she said, smiling.

Mickey looked her over, a small grin creeping to his face. He squashed it as soon as he realized what he was doing.

Carol hummed. "You're time's up now,  _Mickey_ ," she told him.

When he left her office, Mickey made his way to the post office, trying not to think too hard on what had just happened.


	57. Final

Nothing tonight had gone right. Ian stood there, watching the El zip along. He was motionless, his face blank and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jean shorts. His t-shirt stuck to his chest. It was humid tonight. His hair, still damp from having showered only moments ago, kept Ian only mildly cool. Ian sighed, deciding that he would rather walk home than ride the El. Even though it would take probably an hour. It was just past midnight. Honestly he was exhausted, but a walk was the only thing Ian could think of to calm his nerves at the moment. So he stood there a moment more, until the train had passed, then walked, eyes on the pavement, mouth drown into a deep frown now because he could not still his thoughts.

What the fuck had he just gotten himself into? Ian wanted to kick his own ass. It had been almost two years since getting Scott to back off. Two years since dreading work because Ian knew his once Mickey replacement would be waiting there. Two years since dealing with heated phone conversations and being blessed out. Two years since telling Scott that it was over. The tantrums had lasted for two months before Scott had finally left Ian's life for good. Had finally gotten the point. And Ian had just thrown all of that out the window. Had in fact thrown the hard work out and then burned it. Ian shook his head and gritted his teeth, kicking at a random can on the side of the road. What had he been thinking, drunk dialing that guy? And to have taken it further by meeting Scott at a bar. Sure, Ian had plenty of excuses. He mulled them over.

He had been drunk already. And horny. Hadn't been laid in months, and even the time before that, hadn't enjoyed it.

His emotions were torn because of visiting his brother's grave. And he had needed a shoulder.

Seeing Carl's grave had brought on too many memories for Ian. Had brought on thinking of Mickey, in the end, and that had likely been the main reason for phoning Scott, if Ian was being honest with himself.

Ian stopped and waited for cars to pass him, leaned on the stop sign and watched the steady flow of night traffic. The lights hurt his eyes at first, but he stared long enough that all of the yellow, red, green, and blue blurred together. Eventually he had the right to cross, but skipped out on it and closed his eyes, listening to the few people that had been waiting to cross the crosswalk near him went by, their voices drifting. The shower had sobered Ian up some. He was buzzed now, but not sloppy. The shower, and the fact that he had suddenly looked down at Scott below him and realized just what the hell he was doing. A shocker like that will sober up any man.

Finally Ian opened his eyes and ran across the street in barely enough time. He walked by the window of a nearby bar and stopped to stare at his reflection in the glass. He looked beyond himself to the people inside, then moved on.

Another month had gone by, and still Ian hadn't heard back from Mickey. Ian had mailed the letter, so he knew by now Iggy had gotten it. Either the oldest living Milkovich son had received the letter and the money, and had decided to not honor Mickey's plea; or Iggy had done Julio in and Mickey was free, just avoiding Ian and Chicago all together. Totally going back on his promise. Those were the only two ways Ian saw the situation. Because three months was plenty of time for Mickey to have gotten his ass back to Chicago. Ian kind of figured it was the latter option. Iggy would not have turned down that much money every months. Now Ian had blood on his hands for the sake of Mickey fucking Milkovich, and a heart wound the size of the entire muscle. Mickey had eaten Ian alive, and one day Ian hope he could finally tell Mickey that, right after slapping him across his fucking face.

By the time Ian reached his apartment, his body tingled from need for sleep. He stood at the drive into the entrance way, digging through his pockets ahead of tie for the key to swipe at the gate. It was bothersome, Ian thought, living in a gated area. Recently he had considered getting Lip's permission to sale the place and maybe buy a house somewhere he could actually afford. He was fine paying the mortgage on Lip's place, just sick to death of the order around the community. Ian hated in a way that he missed grunge. All of his life he had striven to get away from the shitter parts of life, and now Ian longed for his old neighborhood for some ungodly reason. Probably because he missed when life was simpler.

Ian found his key and walked toward the gate he saw in the distance, by the office building. When he reached it and swiped his card, the gate creaked loudly and probably woke up the useless security guard sleeping in his ridiculously unnecessary hut. Ian walked through the gate while it was still opening, and made his way toward his box.

He hoped that Scott wouldn't try calling him. After Ian had showered, he had expressed his regret for what had gone on and had requested another end to speaking with Scott. Or seeing him ever. Scott had shrugged and thrown an empty glass at Ian's head, but had fortunately missed. The other man hadn't said anything, had just thrown something, and Ian had left. So Ian hoped that was the end of it.

He rounded the corner and hiked up the walkway to his apartment. And stilled, all of his breath leaving him at once.

"For the love of God," Ian murmured to himself, face falling. He pursed his lips and hardened his heart, marching forward quickly, hand clenched, furious and confused. "I thought I made myself clear?" Ian growled lowly as he approached the figure sitting in the shadows of Ian's stoop. "I'm done with this," he went on and watched the figure tense. "You can't skulk around my apartment," Ian raved and stopped walking. His brow knitted and his frown softened slowly, lips parting into a slow surprise. The man in the shadows stood and flicked a burning cigarette that Ian hadn't noticed before into the patch of grass between Ian's side of the apartment and the other. He stepped down from Ian's stoop and walked forward into the moonlight. Ian swallowed hard and pushed a hand against his stomach while he tried rationalizing what he was seeing. His eyes trailed over the man before him fast, then slow, taking in what he saw. "Mickey?" Ian mouthed, still feeling as if he had been kicked in the gut.

Mickey was wearing only a pair of black shorts, and Ian could see the shirt that Mickey had taken off draped on the stoop beside of other items Ian had over looked when he'd thought he saw Scott sitting there. A bag and an energy drink. A packet of cigarettes and a zippo lighter. Ian looked quickly back at Mickey, eyes skimming the array of tattoos Ian had yet to completely identify. He'd been too busy fucking Mickey the last time to ask what the tattoos were, or to really even bother looking at them closely. The redhead thought the sleeve on Mickey's left forearm had Mandy's birthday mingled in towards the side. It was hard to tell in this lighting. But he was pretty sure. And Mickey had cut his hair. Ian stared at the messy locks, free of any gel from what Ian could tell. But Mickey's hair was in disarray regardless of hair gel. He had two crowns, and that was part of the reason. Ian had found that out years ago. Mickey always had a cowlick when he hadn't fixed his hair.

Ian stopped oogling and looked up, eyes wide. Mickey met his gaze. And inside, Ian felt everything give free. His breath shuttered out of him and he just blinked a few times, shaking his head in disbelief. His heart was racing. Mickey looked so calm, and Ian envied him that. They stood there, a foot away from one another, appearing to anyone who might have seen them, to be having a stand off.

"Thanks," Mickey said, a small, crooked grin gracing his face.

And Ian knew then that the hole he had in his heart was worth the pain. All of it. He regretted nothing in that moment. Nothing he had ever been through with Mickey. Nothing but letting Mickey run in the first place. Nothing but that. As Ian stood there staring back at the other man, he figured he wasn't going to let Mickey run again. If Mickey ran again, Ian would certainly follow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic that I had uploaded to FFN after season 2 finished airing. My take on what would happen 5 years into a furture where season 3 did not exist. Excuse the inaccuracies on the other Milkovich siblings (mainly Iggy) during certain chapters. This was written before we knew a little about him. Enjoy and R&R!


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